


these chains upon me

by auspicium (latenightfangirl)



Series: whisper in my ear [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, 魔法使いの嫁 | Mahou Tsukai no Yome | The Ancient Magus Bride
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Forced Marriage, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-05-30 03:55:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 36,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15088469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latenightfangirl/pseuds/auspicium
Summary: One word, one name, one whispered promise to not forget. She would not forget herself, her true self, even when bound in these chains: her wrists chafed and bleeding, her throat choking on nothing but air and lies and contempt, her finger burning with a one-sided vow, and her soul —In a world where there is an outlier amongst the sparse — a Witch amongst men, a being so in tune with magic itself that they are able to bend the world to their will — there are people, witches and wizards and Lords, that will give anything to have one.They are the Chosen Ones, chosen by Magic and Fate and the endless cycle of Life and Death.And the Dark Lord will have his Chosen One.





	1. wrists chafed and bleeding

           Her mother had warned her of strangers: of the way they would beckon her with sweet words, promises of the unpromisable; of how they would lie and lie and _lie._ She had not forgotten; she had _ignored._ The days had become too much — they were too long and too short, she could not remember laughing in the past week, month, _year_ — and she had given in, for the first, the last, and the bloody most regretted time.

The man had been lingering around darkened corners for days, watching and waiting, before attempting to start a conversation with her. He thought she had not noticed, but _oh_ , was he wrong. Evans had seen the slight bulge in his sleeve, the tense line of his shoulders and the avaricious gleam in his eye. He was one of _them,_ she knew, and was far more intelligent than the others.

Evans knew, but she did not _know._ And that would cost her _everything._

She was at the park when it happened, her usual place to mope and avoid her relatives. The creak of the swing chains had been the only noise until the gravel crunched beneath his boots.

“Hello,” he had said — genial, unsuspicious, a slight accent. She could not place it exactly; was it German, Russian? There were not many foreigners in Little Whinging, and when her mother had been alive —

“Do you need something?” she had asked, kicking her feet out to stop the swing. He smiled, then: bland and _false._

“Yes,” he replied, “I would like to offer you a deal. You seem… unhappy. What if I told you that I could change your life?”

“Change my life… Unhappy?”

Of course she was unhappy — her relatives hated her, they had even before they met her, before she was thrown on them because her mother had died and her father had left with her brother… left with her brother who was everything she was not, left her mother to suffer her illness on her own, raise her on her own. And her mother had left her with the Dursley’s, who hated everything magic and strange and _her._

“Yes,” she had said. “I’m unhappy. I want my life to change.” He had stuck out his left hand — _strange,_ thought Evans, even though she knew the reason why — and she had taken it in her own to seal the deal.

And then he apparated her away, shot a _stupefy_ at her, and conjured magic suppressing manacles around her wrists.

* * *

           She was paying the price for her wish, she knew. The cold stones biting into her back, the thin white robes, mere wisps of threadbare fabric, barely capable of keeping her skin from freezing to the floors, the walls, all of it: from floor to wall to ceiling — it was all the same winding pattern of repeating black slabs. It was worse than the cupboard her relatives used to force her into, before she had turned eleven and demanded a real room.

The cupboard had been cramped, with the shelves perched just above her head, the wood reeking of chemicals and dust. It had always been too cold and too dark. A closet to host a secret; a skeleton. She had been glad to be rid of the place, of the spiders that crept into her cot and the dust that blanketed her. This cell reminded her too intimately of the cupboard, of the midnight shivers and encroaching darkness. Though not as cramped or familiar, it was cold — frostbitten, foreboding; impersonal. Her throat prickled from the threat hanging heavy in the air, the miasma that threatened to choke her.

Black. It was all she remembered: since the moment she had grabbed his hand, after the first time they had opened the door to her cell, and now, when she tried to recall what had happened after she clawed at her shackles until her nail beds were burning and bleeding. There was still dried blood on her fingers, crusted and browning, but the injuries were gone. Evans took it for what it was: a warning.

She could be cooperative. She would be good. Then, _then…_

She would _fight._

* * *

           Her eyes remained closed upon waking. There was shuffling, moaning, a draft in the air that spoke of a room larger than her diminutive cell. The stench of bodily fluids was gone, but the heavy tang of iron remained thick on her tongue. Another cry — keening, desperate. The rattle of chains and the drag of claws over metal.

The manacles were still clasped around her wrists, unforgivingly tight and so cold they burned. They were raised above her head, hung on some manner of hook, nearly too high for her feet stay steady on the ground. Evans dragged her toes across the floor, feeling the same biting chill, but stone smoother than her own cell’s had been.

No light flickered behind her eyelids. It was dark — dark enough that she suspected it was pitch black. She opened her eyes to the darkness, squinting, barely capable of distinguishing the silhouettes of cages amongst the endless reach of shadow. Metal rattled sharply. A deafening roar echoed throughout the chamber, fear dripping down her spine.

It ended as quick as it came.

The whines and the murmurs gradually returned, a solemn, undulating wave of voices on all sides. Shifting fabrics and clicking heels chased the edges of the darkness, and Evans sought out those few, nondescript noises. The buzz grew, anxiety and fear rising in great, heaving waves. Light flooded the chamber — barely brighter than one candle’s worth, faded orange and flickering — with a wall of shadows standing behind it. The iron door creaked, groaned, and the screams started.

Breath stuttered in Evans’ chest, stuck in her lungs, choked by her ribs. _They won’t find me here,_ it whispered, burrowing into her sternum, beating against her chest. The screaming was feral, shrill, wrenched from their throats by their fear and forced into the light. The darkness clung to her, the wall hugging her back, numb and still against her hammering heart.

The shadows slunk into the chamber, chains rattling, spells whispered. Everything went black. The screaming, the wailing, the shriek of nails and claws and flesh dragging over stone. Her eyes were screwed shut, refusing to open. It was dark. The iron door slammed shut.

Evans shook, gasped; vomited.

The act brought back her senses — the smell was putrid, more acid than food, more on her flimsy gown than the floor beneath her feet. A grimace, bile between her toes. A shuddering wrack of her chest and aching arms. Trembling thighs pressed together for warmth.

No one else noticed her sick in the midst of the chamber; there was enough of it elsewhere, enough blood and tears and fluids to make her sick all over again. Evans swallowed, refusing to entertain the thought, to invite the sour on her tongue.

The binds, the cells, the sea of faceless voices wailing in the dark; _it is a terrible place, hidden behind winds cold and sharp enough to draw blood. The cold seeps into the stones, into the hearts of those who dare go there._

Evans remembered sleepless nights, hidden beneath her covers, her mother’s hushed and serious whispers haunting her thoughts. _It is Azkaban, but for the innocent; for wayward, stolen children._

The door hinges groaned. The light cast shadows, and the screams began again.

In the sallow light, the shadows moved: black cloaked figures raising their wands, taking motionless bodies, cages, creatures Evans did not recognize. They left again, leaving a quieter room, an emptier chamber.

_They will steal the warmth from your skin, the light from your eyes, your magic and your name. They will take every part of you, and they will put it on display. They will give you up like goods to be sold; copper for your body, silver for your magic, and gold for your soul._

Evans had promised to stay strong. To fight.

The anxiety pooled in her stomach, a wash of nauseous dread roiling like the waters of a bog. Her heart was doing strange, terrible things in her chest; familiar and heavy beats. It was never over. It was always the same, always the fear, always the —

Screams.

Time was immeasurable in this prolonged, nerve wracking wait. The darkness seemed endless, the silence punctuated only by the soft sobs of some nearby, tortured soul; and then the screaming, the flickering candle light, the shadows dragging away limp bodies. Then the silence and the wait and the hammering of her heart. The cold.

The silence.

The door opened once more; the light filtered across the unnaturally smooth stone again; the shadows approached like clockwork in this timeless, peaceless Hell. Their footsteps were mere glides across the floor. There were no screams to be heard, no chains or thumps or nails fighting for purchase.

Just her. Just Evans.

One held their wand aloft, and another reached for her binds. A flinch rattled the manacles; fingers clenched around a wand. They lowered her arms, tugged her forwards, world spinning. Her feet obeyed their silent commands, and distantly, somewhere deep beneath the surging waves of fear and despair and exhaustion, a need to fight sparked.

Yet the iron door fell shut with the finality of death.

_Only the darkest of wizards and witches leave Nurmengard._

* * *

           The gala was decadence and debauchery; a woman strung across a man’s lap, legs fanned out and heels flat against the floor. Checkerboard tiles that wrapped around tables, dragging velvet linens and Persian rugs. A wide-mouthed set of steps and auditorium seats. A crystal chandelier, dripping black wax, a cast shadow swinging in the hum.

Excited and trilling murmurs rising in waves. A sea of masks, porcelain and held aloft by gloved hands, satin and silk ties, charms and transfigurations. The crawl of her awareness along her spine, a reverse siphon of blood, the dread splattering at the crown of her skull.

Evans twitched, head bowed low. The sick that had clung to her gown was gone, though the grime remained: along her skin, the gown, the bile on her tongue. Her head lolled, falling forward, the checkered pattern rising to meet her but not quite reaching — legs quivering, stomach rolling, her feet refusing to find footing, but continuing to walk nonetheless. She was urged forwards, towards the crowd and the whispers and the _danger._ The grip on her arm wrenched her back, nearly sending her toppling over.

The crowd did not react to her, not as far as she could tell — their masks hid more than just their identities, and the intrigued, if not slightly bored hum continued seamlessly. It was then she noticed an aberration in the air, a gently swaying, unnaturally transparent curtain. It was likely working to obscure her from the crowd, though she was not certain; nevertheless, Evans felt more secure than if she were on display for them all to see and judge.

_“If I may have your attention.”_

The voice came from every corner of the amphitheater, like the slither of something viscous and toxic, rasping at the edges, the hiss of a rattlesnake’s tail. It was familiar as it was damning: it was that man’s voice, the one with many accents and yet none, the one she had thought she had seen through but had only been blinded by her own confidence in the end.

A quiet settled over the crowd, whole and unbroken. Not a breath tarnished the silence of the theater, the black market dressed as a festivity. Only Evans’ heart could be heard, and that, too, seemed to almost stop in the face of the man’s voice.

_“A treat has been prepared for tonight. It is unlike anything you have seen before, of that I am sure: none here has ever been graced by a creature such as this — raw magic runs through its veins, and a power hides deep beneath its skin, begging to be unleashed.”_

Hands roved over her skin, and Evans shuddered, choking on bile, the hands were _everywhere_ — and they were pushing, tipping her forward, sending her to her knees under a blinding light —

_“I present to you —”_

She did not want to hear it: the gasp that ran through the crowd, the excited murmurs, the breaths that overlapped one another; she did not want to see it: the greed in their eyes, the desire in their eyes, the _disgust in their eyes, what did she do, why did she deserve this, she must not cry, she must not ever cry —_

_“— a_ Chosen One _.”_

And then the chamber was positively exploding, shouts rising and echoing, people standing and pushing and staring at her like they were rabid wolves and she was _meat_ , like a royal treasure bejeweled with diamonds and gold and everything anyone could ever want. _Why, why, why,_ she thought, chanted, pleaded — why could they not look at her with disgust instead, turn their eyes away, turn her away —

Someone grabbed the back of her head, and Evans cried out, biting her lip, smothering her protests. She pressed her eyes shut, not allowing the tears to fall but simply dangle there, like acid in her eyes. The hand roughly pulled back her hair, revealing her birthmark for all to see — it looked more like a scar than a birthmark, bright red and jagged, her skin raised with irritation.

_“The mark,”_ he said. _“It is the mark of a Chosen One. See it and behold it — the rune of_ Sowilo _, etched by magic across the skin; the crimson hair of a witch, eyes as green as Death!”_

Evans wished dearly to shake her head, to deny it all, but the grip on her scalp was unyielding. It was ludicrous, building her up for her ultimate fall. She was no Chosen One, not whatever these people wanted. She was not, never had been, nothing special —

_“Now, now — surely you all can act with the poise and dignity of the purebloods you are?”_

The blood was rushing from her head, her face feeling cold and pallid, eyelashes fanning against her cheeks. There was a pinch in her neck from how it was being held back, her arms still bound, filth plastered to her skin.

Ten thousand galleons. Twenty. Fifty. A hundred, from the back, the man in the fur cloak. One-fifty. Two hundred. Five hundred. Five hundred going once, twice —

_“One million,”_ was announced, a response to an unseen bidder. _“Going once, twice, sold. That is the end of the auction, ladies and gentlemen, do see yourselves out. Any stragglers left lingering in my halls will be given accommodations in the dungeons.”_

A shot from behind. Darkness.

* * *

           In the space between awareness and slumber, Evans remembered a time when she was more than just Evans, the estranged niece of the Dursleys. Dirt beneath the soles of her feet and grass between her toes, the heady smell of pollen and summer and something undeniably _home._ She remembered the honey-rich hum of the bees, the sharp tang of pollen in the air, the way they would flit from flower to flower.

There were so very many flowers in their garden.

“Mum,” she said, stroking a satin-soft petal. “What is this flower called?”

“That’s a tiger lily, dear,” her mother, red hair red cheeks green eyes, replied. Her hands found hers and they were soft large dirty _warm._ “My sweet girl,” she said, voice lilting with love love love —

“Do you want to know a secret?”

(No no no no _nononononononono_ )

“There are many powerful things in this world. And yet the most powerful of all,” she told her, “are names. Witches and wizards have three names: one shared by the family, one taken for themselves, and one given at birth; the title, the chosen name, and the _true name._ ”

Something in her fluttered with anticipation.

“The title is the family name. I am Lady Potter, your father Lord Potter, and you Heir Potter. The chosen name is the name you pick for yourself. Others may use this name if you so allow, but you are never, ever, to give out your true name.”

Her eyes, green like like the leaves under the midday sun, never strayed from her own.

“Your true name is —”

* * *

           Evans gasped awake, the jolting sensation of a _reneverate_ shocking her system into alertness. She looked around, judging her surroundings, then remembered where she was: Nurmengard, the place of every magical child’s nightmares. Except, the room she found herself in was luxurious. The walls were paneled with dark wood, the seats were cushioned with red velvet, and a mahogany desk was situated before her.

“Don’t mind it,” spoke her captor, pressing his fingers together in a steeple. “It’s a bit of a slow creature. Had a bit of a fight in it when I first procured it, but that was stamped out, of course.” He smiled, a thin line slicing across his face, cold eyes narrowed in something other than mirth but close to it.

She very nearly bared her teeth, the last vestiges of her memory-dream still lingering on her mind, an ember-spitting anger festering in her chest. It roared with the bleeding pride of a Potter, urging her to fight and not submit.

But her memories spoke of cramped spaces, disgusted glances, rattling chains and bile on her tongue.

She was no Potter.

She was _Evans,_ and Evans _survived._

Evans’ eyes lowered, falling listlessly to the floorboards. There was a man at her side, or so she suspected — he was fully cloaked in swaths of black, his hood pulled over his face. He was much taller than any human ought to be, and there was a strange sensation wafting off him in waves.

It pulsated against her skin as though it were a living and breathing thing, her hairs standing on end.

The man’s arm rose, rising from the shadows of his cloak with foreboding solemnity. From her peripheral vision, Evans saw his pale hand reveal itself. It was inhuman: translucent, chalky white skin that shone blue; fingers that were more bone than finger, obscenely lean and —

Her chains fell off.

Evans startled (there was no acting needed for this traumatized, meek display) and shakily picked up the manacles. He had removed them with a wave of his hand, without wand or words.

Her captor hummed, his face showing no detectable surprise. “It’s yours now,” he said, rolling up a rather long parchment. “I bid you farewell, old friend.”

The monster (for what else could he be?) stood and loomed over her. Evans rose, keeping her head ducked low, and shuffled after him. It was humiliating to admit that part of it was no act — this man, monster, being was fearsome in both his appearance and demeanor.

And his magic…

They passed through the labyrinthine halls of Nurmengard, each as dreary and dark and indiscernible as the last. She kept her gaze on the repeating line of torches and far from the man-monster-something.

There was something about him — an aura, a feeling, a certain whisper from her intuition — that had her immediately assuming the worst of him. It could have been his monstrous appearance (though she was disinclined to make assumptions based on appearances) or the strange miasma that wafted off and around him.

It was likely everything at once: the man, monster, whatever — commanded an aura of dangerousness. His magic was near undetectable, like water spilling through her fingers, or the brush of smoke against skin. To use such powerful magics — wordless, wandless, intricate and demanding — without even the slightest spike in magic, that spoke of unimaginable control.

Even now, when she focused upon his core, she could scarcely make it out. There was something — something ineffable, almost familiar… something else… A feeling that was —

The fresh air did not unclog her senses. There was still a heavy weight upon her whole being, pushing down on her like molasses and murky waters and —

Something else. But _what_ was it?

Her wrist was snatched by cold fingers, devoid of the warmth of life. His hold on her was light and barely there, but Evans knew that this shackle was inescapable. He apparated them both away, and it was the most unusual apparition Evans had ever felt.

There was no way to describe it other than fleeting: one moment she was outside Nurmengard, trapped in a feather-light vice; and the next, she was in a vastly different environment. Gone were the cold, the howling winds and trenches of snow; in their place was grass green with summer, bushes and hedges and leaning trees. The air was thick with magic, enough that she could almost taste it on her tongue — the naturalness, the untouched magic of the neighboring woods.

The hand on her wrist disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, falling to the small of her back. It was, once again, an almost imperceptible touch; but its meaning weighed heavily on her. She was guided to the lone standing house — a manor, larger than her childhood home had been, and far grander.

It was styled in a late Victorian fashion. While it was average in appearance, if not a touch opulent, there was a heavy air about the home that spoke of far more insidious inner workings. If Evans could have her way, she would not enter that house even under threat.

But the ghostly touch on her lower back was no mere threat; it was a promise.

A man greeted them at the door. He was a dour sort, with black hair that laid flat, so much so that it stuck to his forehead and clung to his shoulders. She would have called it greasy at any other time, but the man’s dark eyes seemed to almost pierce her very soul. She feared he would hear the thought, even pressed deeply beneath her anxiety and weariness.

“My lord,” the man said, his head bowing. “The room you requested is ready.” Evans did not look up, so she did not see whether her newest captor had nodded or not, but she assumed he had for the servant-man opened the door and backed away.

The hand pushed her forward. Evans stumbled, not expecting the sudden show of forcefulness. “Take her to her appointed rooms,” he ordered, voice barely above a whisper. The servant-man nodded, reaching out to take her wrist. The skin beneath his grip was irritated and burned, but Evans did not flinch. She considered forcing one, but that was too much, too forced of a play and too easily seen through.

She spared a glance back. Her captor, the man that was anything but a man, was gone. He had disappeared without a trace, not a pop or whistle of wind to signal his leave. There was no doubt, though, that her every move was being watched.

The servant-man did not speak to her as he dragged her through the winding hallways. The wood floors creaked beneath their steps, his swift and light, hers fumbling and awkward. An itch built in her throat — there was dust swirling about their feet, stinging her eyes and coating her tongue, but the house itself was not in terrible shape.

They stopped at a door, grooves and borders carved into mahogany, tall, dark, and unblemished. The servant-man turned to look at her — or more accurately, _down_ at her. His lips were pursed much like her aunt’s when she was particularly disapproving, but his held much more distaste. Evans nearly forgot herself, where she was and _who_ she was, but kept her shoulders hunched and hands balled at her sides.

“I will be your… _caretaker_ ,” he said, sneering the last word. “I will not fill your head with unnecessary and untrue reassurances. I do not like children, and I especially detest _caring_ for them. Do you understand?” She gave him a stiff nod. This man would test her control, of that she was certain.

“There is a washroom off to the left of your room. Use it and leave your…” his eyes roved over the tattered slip she had been forced into, “ _clothes_ in the basket. There are garments left for you to change into on the rack. _Do not_ leave your room.”

He opened the door. Evans very nearly gaped — the room was unlike anything she had imagined, unlike anything she had ever _experienced_. The walls were of the same pattern as the hallway, but instead of being the same dull grey, these were a pale salmon.

Two windows conjoined over the head of the bed, which was no smaller than a queen, and was dressed with what could have been any number of silks or velvets. Her body ached for a real bed, one that wasn’t the chamber floors of Nurmengard or the rickety cot of her cupboard.

It made her wary, though — more so than a prison cell would have.

“And _you_ may refer to _me_ as Professor Snape,” the man said, shutting the door with a startling finality. He had not slammed it, but it resonated nonetheless — like the iron doors of Nurmengard, the click of the lock falling into place behind her cupboard door. No matter how prettily they dressed it up, it would always be a cage; and she, the bird.

Despite her despairing thoughts, Evans stood there for longer than she would like to admit, simply admiring the room. For a cage, it was very nice. She did, eventually, gravitate towards the door on the left (the only other door) when her mind began to catch up to her body. Not only did she reek, but her skin itched — there was grime plastered to every inch of her body and her hair was an awful, tangled mess.

The bathroom was just as magnificent as the bedroom. Panel became tile as the bathroom stretched on, and the floors were long slabs of chiseled stone — quite warm, unlike chambers and cells and winter fortresses. She padded across the floors, her feet echoing with the drip of water.

Under a high, stained glass window was a claw-foot tub. It was filled to the brim with steaming, glistening water, sprigs of rosemary, pale lavender heads, and lemon balm leaves drifting about the surface.

After checking that she was suitably alone, Evans stripped her rags. She tossed them in the basket and sidled up to the edge of the tub, dipping one finger in. The water was comfortably hot, and she was uncomfortably dirty, so throwing caution to the wind she sunk into the bath.

Rich water lapped at her skin. It swam through her questing fingers, silken and glossy; and Evans stamped down on the urge to brood on what oils or even potions had been slipped into the bath. Instead, she allowed the tenseness to ooze from her taut muscles under the gentle caress of cleansing warmth. She might have nodded off if not for the sudden tap against the window, which had her immediately awake and covering her chest.

There was snickering outside her window, and little chirping titters. Evans, against her better judgement, let her curiosity get the better of her. She sat up straight and leaned towards the window, tapping the glass.

“Is somebody there?” she whispered. Again, she heard laughter, though it was strange and warbling. The rustle of leaves or the steady drip of dew over a lake. Something or someone tapped the window again. “Who’s out there? I’m in the bath!”

“We’re fairies!” came from behind the window. “We came to greet you. Would you let us in?”

Evans’ mother had told her stories of fairies. They were beautiful creatures, with bell-like laughter and iridescent wings. They were also very vain creatures, constantly preening and coveting their beauty, but ultimately harmless.

“I suppose so,” she conceded. “But how do I open this window? There’s no latch.”

“Use your magic, silly,” came through the glass. “Or do you not know how?”

Evans reared back, exclaiming, “Of course I know how! But it’s not that easy. I’ve no wand, and witches need wands to do magic.” Her thoughts drifted elsewhere, however, to those pale hands working magic without a wand. The fairy — or so she supposed it was — harrumphed.

“Put your hand against the window and wish it to open. These are magic windows; they should work as you wish them to.” There was not much fault in that line of thought: though she could not feel the magic emanating from it per say, there was a faint aura of magic in the air and about it. Perhaps it was not so far fetched as it seemed — she had been living without magic for seven years now, after all.

Evans pressed her palm to the center of the window, where a beam of wood ran straight down, sectioning the pane of glass into even halves. Even thinner slices of wood crisscrossed each other to split the rest into nearly square quarters. She imagined how, in another place or different time, there might have been a latch worked into the wood at this very spot. Her finger ran down the center beam, seeing with her mind’s eye the two halves of the window opening like shutters.

The window clicked, creaked.

“It worked!” she exclaimed, enraptured by the crease of light filtering between the two panes of window. The air was cool on her face, which was still red from the waters. The fairy flew in, a rapid pulse of beating, glittering wings — along with another, and another. “There’s three of you,” she remarked. It was an obvious observation, but a surprising one nonetheless.

The fairies tittered. One flew forward, her shimmering, opalescent dress bouncing excitedly despite the delicacy of her movements. “Merry meet little witch!” she greeted, giving a little curtsy. Then, with a playful smile tugging at her lips, she said rather than asked, “Or are you?” A laugh, eyes crinkled. She swept her arm out, smiling widely. “You may call me Astoria, and these are my friends.” The other two fairies nodded in sync.

“You may call me Hestia, and my sister Flora,” said the first of the two. Their features, fair and pointed, were similar but contrasting. Hestia, though seemingly more dour than her sister, was dressed in passionate, camellia reds. Flora, fairer and more sharp, wore a dress of twilight blue. “Fairy names are difficult for the tall folk to pronounce. We only ever share our true names with our beloveds, though. Is it not the same for your kind?”

“It is; or at least it is for magicals. Muggles — humans without magic — don’t really follow those customs anymore. They’ve forgotten the power behind names.”

“Foolish creatures,” said Flora. “But never-mind them; we’re here to speak of you! Where did you come from, and why might you have come here, if we may ask?”

“Oh,” she said, surprised yet again — it was not often that others took interest in her, and when they did, it was not for small, pleasant talk. “I’m not sure where I am now, but I was living in Surrey, England before. I was taken to somewhere very cold (I think it may have been Germany) and then brought here, though I don’t know where here is or why I was brought here.”

“I believe you are still in England, little witch,” said Hestia. “We do not call these lands the same names the tall folk do, but we have heard whispers. Never before have we heard of this ‘Germany’ though that may be due to its colder climate.”

“We don’t wander far from our home,” said Flora. “It is a beautiful place, warm and rich like honey, with emerald lakes and sapphire skies, and flowers plenty — both those known and not to you.”

“Would you like to see it?” whispered Astoria, as though sharing a precious secret. She blinked her wide, blue eyes and Evans could not help but focus on the darker outer ring and glimmering center, bright periwinkle and cerulean. With great effort she turned her head away, and did not look back again.

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m trapped here.”

“That’s not true,” said Astoria. “You opened that window, even though you should not have been able to. You can leave if you so wish.”

She swung her head around to meet the fairy’s eyes again, ignoring all instincts begging her otherwise. “What do you mean, I shouldn’t have been able to?” she asked. “You said that —” the fairy put her hands over her mouth, coy yet delighted.

“I told you that so you would think you could do it. If I had told you otherwise, would you have had the confidence you did to open it? No,” she answered for her, “and that made all the difference. Magic depends on how much you believe, and you believed the window would open — so it did!”

“But that’s…” Her brow furrowed. Her parents had taught her differently, but who was she to disagree with evidence placed right before her? Perhaps they had planned to teach her, would have taught her, had they not —

“We must go now,” said Flora, tugging on her sister’s dress. Hestia nodded, looking to Astoria.

“If you would like to see our home, little witch, then meet us on the outskirts of the forest after moon-rise,” she told her. Evans nodded. She could escape, and perhaps be rid of cages all together, forever. “Merry part!” chorused the fairies as they took off. She closed the window behind them, it clicking shut and appearance returning to that of a solid wooden beam.

Eventually her fingers began to prune and the water cool. She stood up, letting the water run of her body in rivulets as she wrung out her hair. There was a towel by the bath she had not noticed before, and she began to dry off with it.

Just as the man, Snape, had promised, there were clothes hanging from the rack. Evans grimaced, taking in the dress with distaste. It was a royal blue, like the morning glories that grew along her mother’s trellis. It had a dark green sache going around the waist, ending in a bow at the back.

She pulled it on, knowing she had no other clothes to wear. It fit well enough, if a tad too loosely. The fabric was soft and not at all revealing. She shrugged on the matching green bodice, which was more of a waistcoat than anything. Out of the inner pocket, something slipped out and fell to the floor.

It landed with a metallic clunk. Evans bent down to pick it up, turning it over in her palm. It was a silver locket, with an _S_ emblazoned on the front by tiny emeralds. No matter how she tried, she could not get it to open — not even when she plied her chipped fingernails between the silver faces and pulled with all her strength. Evans returned it to the inner pocket of her waistcoat, certain that it had not been meant for her, and would sooner break than open.

Upon entering her room, all thoughts of the locket vanished in the face of food. There was a tray set out, one with steaming rolls and a bowl of thick, richly smelling soup. The scent of broiled meat and greens wafted towards her, guiding her feet to it. Next to the food there was a goblet of pumpkin juice (it had been so long since she had last had it) and a folded napkin.

She did not dare eat without first checking it, despite how her stomach protested. Though she had no immediate way of inspecting it for tampering, she went through the motions of smelling and tasting small bits, rolling them over her tongue, waiting for a sign of something amiss.

There were no strange odors or misplaced tastes — not even a trace of magic lingering about the feast. The jagged-sharp pains in her stomach finally became too much, and Evans caved, snatching up a dinner roll and downing it in two bites. She lifted the soup bowl to her mouth and gulped the broth, nearly choking in her hastiness. Manners be damned, she was starving.

She realized she may have been a bit too vigorous with her food when her stomach began flip and clench painfully. Slowly, she drank from her goblet and allowed her stomach to settle. Crumbs and broth were wiped from her mouth and her dress brushed off.

What could have been an hour or six passed, when she finally gave into her restlessness. No one had come for her yet, and she was beginning to wonder whether they wanted her to come to them. The infuriating man, Snape, had told her to stay in her room, but what else was she to do?

Evans knew how to sneak around without getting caught. She had needed to, when she stayed with her relatives. They were a nasty bunch, and after the first few times being caught sneaking food, she had learned to avoid discovery at all costs.

The door was unlocked. Or perhaps she had unlocked it without knowing, like she had with the window. It was better off that she did not ponder on it too long, lest she give herself a headache; the door was open and that was all that mattered. Evans looked in one direction then the other, and not seeing anyone, took one step forward and shut the door behind her.

When Snape had lead her to her room, she had been secretly memorizing which floorboards creaked. He had probably thought she had been stepping on them on purpose to annoy him, which was not wrong, but she had had ulterior motives in mind at the time. She had done this at the Dursley’s, and by now it was an ingrained practice.

The entrance hall came into view, and Evans stiffened, hastily scrambling to hide behind the wall. A hypnotic, menacing, very noticeably sibilant muttering filled the room — soft but _there,_ so very there that it settled in the pit of her stomach and twisted like an agitated snake.

Peering around the edge, her hair kept pulled back and head behind the cover of an antique vase, Evans scanned the room. Across from her, near the opening of an opposite hallway, a distinctly feminine figure passed by. Her footsteps were silent, covered completely by the trailing, seemingly unending train of her dress.

There was something off about the figure that left Evans feeling antsy, almost religiously casting her eye over her again and again. There was nothing to discern from her appearance except that she dressed with the elegance and overly lavish nature of a cultured, pureblooded heiress. But even this was put to question, for Evans’ father had preferred common wear to dress robes, and perhaps this woman — this unknown, mysterious, unquestionably dangerous figure — simply mirrored the opposite taste.

As though her single minded focus upon the other had somehow become a physical presence in the room, the figure stopped, head perking up. Evans’ breath stilled in her chest, tasting of stale dust and bitter fear.

From behind the other’s curtain of hair, pale white bangs shrouding her face and features, a string of hisses began to issue — long and breathy, a hypnotic charm laced between their endless syllables. And when her head turned towards where she hid, the curtain of hair not parting or shifting, Evans did not dare move.

Her eyes were screwed shut, refusing to open. It was dark. _The iron door slammed shut._

The hissing faded into a distant echo. Evans found herself crouched low, eyes plastered shut and heart hammering in her chest, completely and utterly alone. Silence hung about her like a guillotine above her head. The room came into focus, and there was no sign of the pale-haired figure, not a glimmer of a glimpse, not a whisper of a hiss.

Evans bolted for the door on shaky legs, jiggling the doorknob. It chinked raucously, the clatter of metal against metal, and gave resistance with each of her desperate twists. Not even when she prayed, begged, pleaded with it to open, it refused to comply. Evans gave breathy curse, sweat beading beneath her palms, across her brow. Footsteps sounded from the corridor she left, and without much thought she scurried for escape.

The other hallway was out of consideration — she did not want to tempt fate twice. There was no way she could leave the same way she came, for she would run into whoever was walking down it. The footsteps were growing closer, and she prepared herself for being caught.

It was then she noticed it: a wardrobe nestled between two side tables. She could fit in it if she squeezed, and desperation outweighed hesitancy. Evans threw open the wardrobe, pushed the hanging coat to the side, and scrambled in. Her blunted fingernails scraped against the doors, unable to find purchase against the flat wood, trying and failing to seal the crack between them.

She hissed when a splinter burrowed beneath her nail, and swore she could see those black eyes flicker to her. The doors were shut, and dust was burning her eyes, but she kept as quiet as possible. Through the crack of the wardrobe, she could see a speck of black gliding across hardwood floors. It stopped, her heart stopped, he stopped — and then she heard it: sniffing.

“Lavender,” hissed Snape, far too sibilant, far too near. Panic rose in her chest, beating like a sledgehammer against her ribs, the echo of an iron door, the latch of a lock falling into place. The walls were closing in on her, heart roaring in her ears, everything but his voice drowned out. “…Rosemary. Lemon balm,” he listed, her heart skipping a beat with each racing thought, his keen, intelligent mind certainly already aware.

Evans swallowed the scream in her throat, the bile on her tongue.

Snape wrenched open the wardrobe doors, the skin around his eyes pulled taut with suspicion. There was a coat hanging from the rack, some dust wafting down from the ceiling, and nothing else. “I was certain…” he muttered, closing the wardrobe and twisting on his heel.

A collection of inhales and exhales became clogged in her throat, clawing with red-hot nails against the inside of her lungs, the backs of her eyes. Evans desperately tried to swallow the air, caked with dust and dirt and must, but found it slipping just out of reach. Her heart was hammering, stuttering, shrill screams rising in her ears —

It was too small, too tight, there was no room to move, to breathe, her lungs were collapsing and she was falling and everything was too dark, too painful, too _cold…_

She coughed, spluttered, spat out a glob of dirt and dust. Her lungs ceased their burning, and the cold retreated, and Evans wiped the grime from her dress. She had leaned back, pressed her weight against the wooden back of the wardrobe, and it had given way. She silently thanked her luck, for only her luck could grant her a timely escape by false backings in wardrobes and tumbles through secret tunnels.

Though she was likely in the basement, there was not much difference in the ceiling here from the main floor. Her father would have thought it ingenious craftsmanship, knowing him.

A single ray of light pierced the darkness, dust particles dancing in a draft, and Evans fumbled her way to it. Pushing on a slanted panel of wood, it opened easily enough, leading out into what was presumably the backyard. She clambered out of the cellar, shutting the doors behind her (the lock had broken with age, it seemed).

What had seemed to be sunlight, though, was in fact fairy light.

“There you are!” said Astoria. “I was starting to think you wouldn’t show. Oh, you’re so dirty. Allow me,” she said, putting her hands on Evans’ dress. The muck that had accumulated from hiding in the wardrobe and falling into the cellar vanished.

“Oh, er, thank you,” she said, a tad roughly. The fairies tittered, taking her hand.

“This way,” they said, leading her towards the forest. The lights began to appear in abundance, an atmosphere of faint, tinkling shimmers. Twigs crunched beneath her feet. Her toenails were stained black by the dirt, and her soles red from the numerous scrapes and barbs digging into her feet.

“Not much farther now,” Astoria assured, guiding her through a thick patch of bramble. Drowsiness was starting to blanket her, a soft, honeyed drizzle of tranquility. She could still hear the fairies, chirruping and laughing like bells on the wind. It was nice, it was…

“Already trying to escape are you, Harri?”

She spun around so fast it was almost as if she had never been tired at all. “Don’t you _dare_ call me that!” she screamed, fists clenching. The fairies scattered. “What do you want from me?”

The cloaked figure glided closer. “You have power within you,” he said, voice whisper-soft. His adoring tone caressed her skin, sending shivers down her spine. It was disgusting. “Promise… The capability to become great.”

“And?” she said. “Was that your plan? To get rid of me before I can become a threat to you?”

He began to laugh, his head tilted back. The cloak hood fell, revealing his face in all its horrific glory: pale, chalky skin, two slits for a nose, and a bald, scale scattered head. Evans grimaced, fighting off the urge to spit insults at his disfigured face. She was no longer a Potter.

“Get rid of you? No, I have much better plans than that. You have potential… but it’s raw as of yet. Yes… with the right guiding, you could be great. And under my tutelage, you will be better than great: you will become _unstoppable._ Don’t you see?”

“All I can see is that you’re raving mad,” she bit out, taking step back, a branch crunching underfoot. Strangely though, she did not feel it — had her foot gone numb from blood loss? No, she could feel the earth, the earth which had cracked.

Evans screamed, her world tilting, the tree canopies and the stars and the moon all entering her vision faster than she could comprehend. Something smoother than silk and _familiar_ wrapped around her waist, on the tip of her tongue but _what was it?_

“You should be more careful, Harri,” said the monster, his face startlingly close. “Lord Voldemort has plans for you, and as all endeavors I take under, they shall succeed.” A hand caressed her cheek, fingernails running teasingly over her flesh. “Don’t you wish to be great? To be powerful, feel magic coursing through you? To never feel weak or helpless again?

“I can teach you to guide magic with your touch, your very breath… Lord Voldemort can show you how to bend the world to your whims, to _speak_ to magic. Magic is a gift, and it’s dying, _can you hear it?_ ”

Her lungs remained still, refusing to gasp for air. She could hear it, between the rustle of the leaves and the brush of the wind. The animals, if there ever were any, were silent. Beyond the silence, beyond the forest and the night and the world, she could hear the song of magic: somber and lamenting.

_Don’t trust him,_ Harri whispered. _You know who he is. What he is._

“What are you getting at?” she said, the binds that saved her now tightening imperceptibly. Voldemort studied her face, eyes red like the blood he has spilt.

“Is it not obvious? I wish to teach you… make you my student, my apprentice. We could be great…”

Evans sneered, the steady crackle of her courage roaring to life. This man, monster, devil — he was the very thing she despised. “We could be great, and then what? I know who you are, _Voldemort,_ and I know your agenda. You’re a liar and a manipulator — you want me as a weapon and nothing more!”

“Oh?” he whispered darkly. “Perhaps I can convince you yet. What do you know of my wants, my desires, truly?” He leaned in closer. “I crave war, blood on my hands, terror in the eyes of all who know of me? To rule over this world and all who live in it?”

Her heart was going to beat right out of her chest —

“Or do I want revolutionize this world? See it remade from the ground up, revive magic and spread the knowledge of power, true power — no good or evil — is that what I want? Because I think it is. I think it is my goal above all else.”

_“His goal, Harri, is not to save anyone but himself. He fears death, and will go to great lengths to avoid it. Pretty words and promises do not make a man; it is his actions and choices that do. Don’t let him fool you, my flower —”_

He spun words like a spider did webs — intricately, beautifully, deadly. She was more stubborn than most though, Evans or Harri, it did not matter which, because she followed her morals, and her morals only. What he offered her was tempting to say the least, but it was too good to be true.

She spat in his face.

“Do you think I’m a fool?” she snarled. “I don’t believe a word you’re saying. You can’t make me cooperate so you’re better off killing me now. I won’t fall for your traps, Voldemort, nor will I ever!”

His eyes darkened, face twisting like some hideous caricature of an ivory statue, cracked and misshapen. Evans feared that rather than kill her he would instead leave her to live, only to be tortured to insanity and back.

“You are beyond foolish,” he said. “But you will learn with time… They all do, and you, Harri, you’re too important to let go.” His mouth curved into a facsimile of a smile. “I’ll enjoy breaking that spirit of yours,” he said, leaning back.

“Monster!” she screamed, snapping her teeth at him.

“How very much like an animal,” he said, almost as though he were inspecting a particularly intriguing creature. “Severus must have his hands full with you. Not that I care; he could be taken down a peg or two. Will you stop that or do I have to make you?” Evans attempted to swing her leg at him one last time, though the binds refused to let her, then stilled. Exhaustion was settling over her, swift and unkind. But she had gotten so far; it would be a waste to end this now.

“I’ll never let you _use_ me —!” cage me like an animal, work me like a slave, take away _my name, who I am,_ “— do you hear me?”

“Of course I hear you, blasted girl,” he said, backing away. “I’m sure Severus can hear you and everyone beyond that — but you _will_ be my apprentice, my most prodigious student. You will rise above the others, beyond anyone that’s come before you.”

How could he continue to praise her after all this time? Was it part of his manipulations? She had never been astute at differentiating lies from truth, and he had convinced greater men than her with his silver tongue. Should she treat everything he said as a lie, or take his words at face value?

_Pretty words and promises do not make a man; it is his actions and choices that do._

It was then she made a decision — one Harri might not ever have entertained, and yet it was one Evans, the girl who lived in this moment, the girl who survived and conquered, found to be her only choice.

“... I will give you one chance,” she told him, watching his expression carefully. _It’s a mask,_ whispered Harri, but Evans ignored her. A chance, she thought, “To prove yourself to me. I will let you… teach me, and will treat you as though I never knew you before today.”

“A blank slate?” he said, smiling nastily. “Lord Voldemort can work with that.”

“But,” she interjected, pleased to see the smile be wiped off his smug face. “If I am… unimpressed, so to say, with whom I come to know and learn under, then I will stop cooperating.” Evans studied his face: his expression was blank, but his eyes were alive — she could see him going through numerous decisions in his mind.

“Fine,” he agreed. “You will begin tomorrow under Severus’ tutelage —” she squawked in indignation “— learning herblore, potions, and healing. You promised to cooperate, and you best keep to your word.” He leveled her with a bland stare. “And do try not to run off again. The fae will lead you into their realm, where you’ll be trapped for the rest of eternity.”

Evans swallowed.

“Now return to your room before I decide you’re more trouble than you’re worth.”

_Don’t let him fool you, my flower —_


	2. throat choking on air and lies and contempt

           It felt like a second heartbeat. A heart of cold metal and chiseled stones, a heart hung on chains settled over her breast. It was oddly warm — unnaturally warm; _humanly_ warm. Her skin clung to it (or did it cling to her?) as though it could swallow it whole and bring it next to her own heart, where their rhythmic beats would sync and never part.

She ran her fingers tentatively over the space above the chain. It unnerved her for some unknown reason, this locket, but she could not place it; it reminded her annoyingly of Voldemort in that way. Even though she felt uneased by its presence, she did not take it off — or perhaps she could not; could not bring herself to try, could not get her fingers to brush the (abnormal, aberrant, beautiful) locket.

Evans admitted, silently and to herself, that she may feel a touch of fear for the piece of jewelry. It was irrational, but most fears were, were they not?

She forced her hand and attention to pull away from it. It was not benefiting her to moon over it, as peculiar as the locket was, especially when she needed to memorize the properties of crushed belladonna seeds when combined with bachelor’s button paste and powdered fairy wing. They reacted to create a surprisingly (or unsurprisingly, if you are potions-know-it-all, Severus Snape) potent catalyst.

Bachelor's button, or rather cornflower, had been one of the few blue flowers to grace her mother’s garden. They were beautiful, one of her favorites, really — but nothing compared to the fiery beauty of her mother’s red flowers. Crimsons, burgundies, and wines — they were vivid and so _alive,_ rich with the color of life and fire and home.

Yet everything here, in the manor of the Dark Lord Voldemort, the man that was more than a man, a monster of a man, a lurking, terror of a being — but she needed to stop herself. He was no one but the wizard who had bought her, brought her into his home and… _saved_ her from being fairied away. He was nothing but what she had seen, and never what she knew him to be; for that was their deal: to ignore and learn.

And be it Evans or Harri — she kept to her word.

But his manor was nothing like home, she returned to speculating, as it was all green and dark tones. Green like the vines that climbed up the walls, verdant like the trees and bushes and brambles, and dull like her eyes in the mirror. Her home was red like the velvet that lined the chairs, crimson like the sun breaking the horizon, bloody like his burning eyes —

She immediately doused that fire and every thought following it.

Belladonna, bachelor’s button,  — that was what she needed to focus on. An infusion of bachelor’s button would ruin the balance, as it was too pure. The paste allowed enough of the juice to mix but not more than necessary; and the solid remnants of the flower acted as a stabilizer to the belladonna’s chaotic nature. The fairy wing assured its allure, powdered so as not to overwhelm, but slink into the senses, subtle and bewitching _…_

An illustration in the textbook displayed the gruesome aftermath of a Mesmerizing Tonic gone wrong. The skin was bubbling like oil gone too hot, and the eyes were bulging, mouth open in a silent scream of agony. Evans wanted nothing more than to look away, but the blackened veins protruding from his neck caught her attention and held it.

She shook herself from its morbid thrall, flipping the page. It was unsettlingly loud in the quiet of her room. Her room, her new room in the manor of the — of Voldemort, her master, and she his apprentice. It was a daunting (but secretly exciting) thought. What would she be able to learn under his tutelage? What obscure and powerful magics did he know that were beside torturing and killing?

The sun began to creep lower in the sky, and she took a break for dinner, leaving her studying — and ruminations on the morality of learning from a Dark Lord — for later. Those were not thoughts she wanted lingering about as she ate. She would sooner be sick than hungry, especially if her imagination proved just as detailed as the images in her texts.

She would soon be expected in the apothecary rooms for her evening lessons, though, and her bookmark was only a quarter of the way into the first book. Snape, or rather, _Professor_ Snape would be as unfair as usual, she expected with morose indignation. To memorize these books from front to back in three nights time was asking more than anyone could do.

Her mind was swimming with information, theories and practices she had not heard in years — nearly seven, to be exact. Or was it closer to eight, now? Evans pushed away her plate, feeling apathy rise in her chest. The food looked uninteresting now, and she had eaten more than enough. Perhaps her last few minutes before her lesson could be spent in her own interest.

Her own interest, far from grotesque imagery and intrusive thoughts. She would nap, then, and wake up well rested and ready for her two hours of potions lessons.

Yet sleep, fingers dipped unseemly within the throes of her mind, grasped her consciousness and wrenched it far from the waking world.

“You’re late,” Snape observed as she entered the room. It was, at one time perhaps, a stunning sight to behold — but now it was just dreary and humid, the windows boarded and the air thick with fumes. She longed for the gentle rays and sweet scent of drying herbs, for the what the room once might have been but was no longer.

“I didn’t mean to be,” she responded, knowing her words would not appease him, but saying them anyway. Snape (the title of Professor was a waste on him) gave her his usual sneer  _—_ a good dose of irritation mixed with loathing.

“You didn’t intend to, perhaps, but you _did;_ and now twenty minutes of the time I take out of my busy schedule for your _lessons_ has been wasted.” He flicked his wand and a sheet of parchment came flying towards her. “You have proved yourself incapable of managing time, so by logical conclusion, I don’t hold much hope for your brewing, either.”

“I am not _incapable —_ ”

“Then prove yourself _able_ ,” interrupted Snape, blandly. “That potion is one that any amateur with even the slightest ounce of talent could manage. Now begin.”

The supplies reminded her of her mother’s workspace. She had owned a cauldron not dissimilar to the one she was using now, but her knives had been ebony handled and engraved. Her mother had never let her hold them; she was too young, then, and by the time she could, her mother had been too far gone to teach her.

“I’ve seen eleven year olds with more talent than you,” he said, judging her finished potion. “This is dreadful. Utterly unacceptable.”

“You can berate my abilities and my potion all you like,” Evans said, her words coming out surer and more confident as she went on, “but I would like to actually _know_ what I did wrong with it so I can become _better._ ”

Snape gave her a sour look, but did answer her. “The consistency is too thick — you’ve added whole snakeroot leaves when the potion clearly calls for the _juice._ Not only that, but you’ve managed to stir in the opposite direction, however _that_ came about,” he sneered.

“Is that all?” she asked, looking at her potion with a pinched expression. It did not look too far off from the one pictured in her book… Though, perhaps she was recalling the one from the page before it.

“No,” he said, tone growing darker, the rattle of a cobra’s tail, “You intentionally make a fool of me. Did you think I would not notice your obvious, and _ridiculous, ‘_ mistake’ of mincing rather than dicing?”

“What?” said Evans. “You think I am messing up on purpose? For what reason? I’m trying to learn here, and you, you —!” The cabinets began to rattle, the jars clinking and wobbling precariously. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to calm. Becoming angry was dangerous. If she lost control, if she messed up —

The panic overrode her rage, allowing her to think more clearly. “No,” she said, firmly, “I am not trying to do whatever it is you’re insinuating.” Standing, she brushed off her skirts. “And if you’re not going to actually teach me — because calling me stupid is not in any way _teaching_ me — then I’m going to return to my room and study my texts; because at least they give me useful information.”

He hissed like a rearing snake, his face contorting unpleasantly. “You dare —” A pause. The expression melted from his face like snow in spring. There was something awfully like hope in his eyes, which unsettled her greatly. It was gone in the next moment, replaced by a molten hatred. It was nothing like the annoyance and mild disgust he held for her; it was true, and undeserved in her opinion, loathing.

Evans took a step back, finding panic rise in her again but for an entirely different reason. She looked to the door, which was closed but unlocked, and back to the man who was supposed to be teaching her. There was an intangible, ineffable feeling hovering just above the surface, daring to cast a ripple, to disturb the waters.

Against her expectations, though Evans was still unsure _what_ exactly she expected, he turned around (his robes swirling behind him in a decidedly dramatic fashion) and vanished the potion from her cauldron. “Do it again,” he said, voice clipped. “And remember to correct your mistakes, or I will be most disappointed.” And with that, he left, the door slamming shut behind him.

_(…with the finality of death —)_

Evans worked in pleasant silence (though it felt wrong for reasons she refused to think about) with no foreboding shadow looming over her. Her nerves had just begun to settle when Snape sauntered back in, a look of obstinate reproval on his face. She refused to let it bother her; if he judged her work unfairly, she would take care of the matter herself.

“Well,” he said, tortuously dragging out his decree. Her palms began to itch as he tested the consistency and other aspects, his face devoid of any noticeable emotions. “You seemed to have followed my corrections adequately, though the fluxweed was chopped too finely and the color is off by three shades.”

“And it wasn’t before?” she asked, narrowing her eyes. Snape’s own glinted with a cruel mirth, lips curled in a smirk.

“It was, but I expected you to notice the mistake on your own. It was a simple thing to notice, really, but I suppose you simply aren’t a Potions Master, are you, _Harri?_ ” He grinned, his teeth yellowed and crooked. “Nor are you worthy of being called an amateur, if you cannot even tell the difference between mincing and dicing.”

The embers in her chest spit and roiled, trying desperately to catch fire and _ignite,_ but she would not allow it. “No, I suppose not, but it really shows your ability as a teacher, doesn’t it?” She wiped her sweating palms on her skirt. “You can’t even remember my chosen name,” she remarked.

Snape was not riled by her words, however, and Evans began to feel as though she had reacted just as he had hoped. “Do you think yourself deserving of being called by your _chosen_ name?” he asked, poking the sleeping beast. “Do you think yourself so important, so powerful, that you deserve to be called not by your given name, but your _chosen one?_ ”

_“Shut up!”_

A glass jar shot off the counter. It crashed to the floor, shattering on contact. The windows rattled, the shelves shook, and the potion bubbled menacingly. A pallor fell over Snape’s face, and he took a step back. There was a fire in her chest, alive and roaring, snapping its flaming maw. She felt powerful, in control, _above_ control — no one could stop her! No one could hurt her! She could hurt _them._

But Evans recoiled from the feeling, recognizing, fearing, anticipating. The power that had swelled, broiled and grew and overpowered, simmered to a flickering candle flame. She drew deep, heaving breaths, no longer under the sway of her rage but now in the clutches of her panic: her hands shook, heart raced, and  chest squeezed.

“I’m not Harri,” she said, desperately, trying to convince someone; she did not know who. “I’m not Harri, not any longer, not anymore. I’m not her… I’m just Evans.” A survivor. A girl who knew patience and masks and loneliness. Someone who was not… was not part of a family.

“You’re not Evans,” Snape said, and she did not snap back, because his response was without heat or ice or barb; it was simply an empty statement. “You’re not her, you’re not Evans… but you chose her name.”

“I did. Someone you knew took that name, too?” The sadness, the loss in his voice, it was unmistakable. She had felt it, too, and still did to this day.

“Yes,” said Snape, turning away. “But I see not why I should tell you anything.”

“My mother’s chosen name was Evans,” she told him. “It was her family name. She hadn’t been raised with magical naming traditions, and she didn’t want to take another name for herself. I — I only took her chosen name after she had died because mine… mine no longer fitted. I was someone else, then, now, and I — I couldn’t be _her_ anymore. I’m not _Harri_ anymore.”

Snape was quiet, studying her, thoughts imperceptible. “My lord chose your name not because you once had it, but for its meaning: did you, too, choose it for that?”

It was no mere question, but a judgement — her answer would determine how he perceived her from here on out.

“Yes,” she said, ignoring the sneer that began to form, the foolish animosity he held for something so _simple_ , “because I — like every person on this earth — am more than just one meaning. People are more than they appear, and I chose my name not for its meaning of _power,_ but for _family._ ”

A pause, then: “Good night.”

Evans adjourned to her room, shutting the door and daring Snape to come after her. She would tell him her thoughts without censure, then, if he followed. Though she doubted he would; he was not the type. But he had angered her so, and even made mention of that wretched title.

The Chosen One — she was no Chosen One. She was Evans, neither Harri nor Heir Potter nor anything but a normal witch. She was the orphan girl with her mother dead and no father to speak of, with relatives that barely put up with her and luck more temperamental than a dragon. She was normal. She wanted to be normal.

Her thoughts were smothered by linen sheets, smelling faintly of lavender and vanilla. She burrowed into the covers, running from her thoughts and worries and simply letting herself relax — into the sheets, the mattress, the wonderful and comfortable bed. Sleep would be kind to her.

But neither her drowsy state or the fine bedding were enough to fully quell her thoughts. Anger rose in her chest in plumes of charcoal smoke, embers curling and popping and attempting to catch. For five days now she had stayed here, and for five days she had put up with this diatribe. Where was her _master,_ now?

What judgements could she make when he would not show his face? What could she say, besides that he was fair enough to give her rooms and food? She was given expectations she could not hope to meet, words undeserved, and a teacher who refused to teach! She had enough of this farce, of this one-sided deal. Who was benefiting here?

Evans rose from her bed, the bed, and paced about the room. She still felt the call of sleep, the gentle lull of blissful escape. Sleep was no true escape, though — but she had another option, if she dared.

Her feet found their way towards the bathroom door before she realized where she was heading. The doorknob was turning under her hand, she was passing the mirror and the sink and the empty tub. The window was closed, but it only took a touch of her finger and a desperate hope for it to open.

What was she doing? She had a deal — but the temptation of escape was so thrilling, she could not let it go now that she had had a taste. What had the fairies said, exactly? Magic depended on will — if she willed it so, could she make it to the ground without being hurt?

Gathering her dress in one hand, Evans put on leg outside the window and the other steadied her. Her heart was hammering louder than it ever had in her chest. She could not breathe, could not think like this. Would accidental magic save her? What if she landed wrong and snapped her neck? What if —?

She fell swifter than her thoughts could race. The sky was all she could see: stars peeking out and the moon a smiling, waxing crescent. Her magic had cushioned the fall, though she could not recall just when or how it had happened, and had made the grass softer than the plumpest mattress.

Her hands were still shaking, and she could do was roll on her side. She breathed in deeply to regain her bearings, and rose to her knees. She could leave, she could escape, she could be _free —_

No, no. What had possessed her to do what she did? Was it the threat of being locked there forevermore, or the slow acting poison of imprisonment, of helplessness? She had never been able to stay caged — not with the Dursleys, and neither here. She would be free; she would find a way.

Perhaps brought out by her heart’s wish, or called by the will of her magic, a light danced in the darkness of the night’s woods. It was white, almost blue, illuminated with wisps of soft tendrils. Evans narrowed her gaze, catching the tail end of the specter before it vanished behind a bushel. She rose to her feet and wobbled towards the spot it vacated.

As her steps grew surer, the light made reappearances: a glimpse there, and a phantom there. Evans thought it was beginning to resemble some animal, perhaps a small fawn. It enticed her to follow, leading her through the dark of the woods, onto beaten paths and towards swelling lights. She broke the edge of the forest, coming to a stop at the beginnings of a cobbled walkway.

There was no sign of the mysterious apparition, only lit-windowed homes and blinking street lights. Evans kept to the sidewalk, hoping for hope that she would see the fawn once more. It had led her this far, her skirt ends ripped and dirtied, her feet bleeding and bruised, and now she only wished it would guide her a little further.

The rumble of a car’s engine startled her into hiding, jumping into the dark crevice of a musty back alley. Her heart was hammering in her chest, fingers tugging on her collar in an attempt to simply _breathe._ She waited for the car to pass by (too fast, swerving too wide) and then crept out from the shadows. The road continued on for a long ways, and Evans stayed on a straight path.

Eventually she came to an end, the concrete shifting to gravel, and street lamps growing fewer and further apart. She tentatively made the first step on the graveled pathway. The sharp edges of the rocks bit into her wounds, her lips curling in a hiss. Evans lifted her foot up and inspected the sole: a pebble was wedged in the gory mess of peeling skin and dirtied blood. She pick at it, her fingernails fumbling to get it, before she finally managed to remove it.

She kept firmly to the soft grass beside the path, then, making sure to walk slowly and lightly. The dark did not help her in avoiding trash and prickled weeds, but she kept strong — there were lights ahead, flickering in the absence of day, and a speck on the horizon that looked an awful lot like the blue-white light of her guide.

A house came into view, soon enough: it was oddly shaped, like three stacked on one, and built in a way that suggested it was not entirely stable. But it smelled of magic — like ozone, prickling along her skin. Something sweet, too, like gingerbread and —

Oh, she realized, that delightful smell was indeed coming from the house — but from some inhabitant’s cooking, not the house itself. She hesitated at the doorstep, tugging at her collar to relieve her heightening nerves. The neck of her dress was really beginning to wear on her.

Evans was not one to succumb to fear, however, and plowed on, knocking her knuckles on the door in a rhythm of two’s. There was a commotion behind the entrance, a chorus of banging and laughter, some heightened voices and muffled words. She picked up on some footsteps, growing ever closer, and then —

— the door opened with a burst of warm light.

“Ey, Mum! Somebody’s here!”

There was a boy in the doorway, one with mussed up ginger hair and a smattering of freckles. He was tall, much taller than her, and was wearing what appeared to be pajamas. A flush crept up his neck as he seemed to realize that too. He muttered a few short words Evans could not decipher and ran off. He did so just in time, because two more redheads appeared and grabbed her by the biceps both.

A woman came around the corner, followed by a man and another boy as they pulled her inside. The door was shut behind her, and her head was swimming — she heard the twins get reprimanded, the other boy say something, and the (assumed) mother ask her a question. There was also a sudden exclamation, some more flurried movements, and she was being seated on a couch.

“Oh, dear, you’re bleeding,” said the mother, lifting up her battered feet. The room was much less chaotic now that the many boys had been sent away. “And your dress is in tatters…” She pinched the dirt-caked hem between her fingers, frowning deeply. “Dear?” she asked, meeting Evan’s eyes. “Are you alright?”

She wished to nod, but the motion escaped her. The cushions were oh-so very comfy, and she was beyond exhausted, beyond any capability of thinking or speaking or even really caring. Everything had been so much, recently, and so very little. When was the last time someone had handled her with the care of a mother?

“Oh dear,” said the red headed mother, pulling her into a _very warm very soft very nice_ embrace. She smoothed Evans’ hair with slow and heavy strokes, murmuring all the while, “It’s going to be alright, dear, everything will be fine. You’re safe now.” And if she began to tremble very faintly, then nothing was said of it.

“Mum,” said one of the boys, she was not sure which nor cared to know, “I’ve the bandages you asked for, and the healing salve. Is she —?”

“She’s going to be alright, Percy,” said the mother. Evans felt very cold when she pulled away, and her chest ached fiercely. Perhaps she had been closer to tears than she had thought, for she found herself choking up suddenly. “Hand me the ointment, would you? I have your father putting on a kettle —”

No, perhaps it was her dress. The neckline had been feeling awfully tight ever since she left. Evans tugged on it, feeling her face heat with the lack of air she was getting.

“— dear, I’m going to need you to prop up your — dear? Are you alright?”

She was not alright, she was choking, and it was getting tighter by the second. What was burning around her throat? What was — the locket! The locket’s chain was shrinking, tightening, coiling around her throat in a searing embrace. Evans gasped, gagging, tearing at the burning links with her blunted fingernails.

_“Ickle Harri!”_

Startling, Evans released the chain with one of her hands, scrambling from the couch and backing away. Who had —?

 _“Come out, come out, wherever you are — oh, you can’t run, and neither can you hide!”_ Laughter, sick and cackling, sounded from outside the house. Who was after her now? Would it have been better if she — no, she could not regret it now, not when she was so close!

Something thumped against the door.

The family looked terrified, scared out of their wits, completely unprepared. She had done this — had brought this on this family.

A louder, heavier thump.

She —

A flurry of bangs hit against the door, and the laughing started again, crazed and blood curdling and _right there._

“Percy! Make sure the twins and Ron are upstairs, _now._ And keep your sister safe; cast as many wards as you can,” was barked by the mother, but Evans was already moving, decision made. There was a call after her, but she was gone by then — out the door, the woman further back than she had been.

Her hair was a mess of stormy black curls, her eyes as wild as tornado winds. She was hunched down like an animal, a predator seeking its prey. A mad grin curled across her blood-painted lips. Her very aura tasted dangerous, her magic like a cracking whip, no direction in mind when it hit, but striking _hard._ She could almost hear it, the whistle through the air, the _pop —_

Oh, she realized, she _had_ heard that. Many pops, in fact, as wizards apparated onto the lawn. They were dressed in black cloaks, familiar in their own foreboding way, like a nightmare forgotten at dawn. She recognized one, two — they had been there when she was purchased at that magic forsaken auction. Their masks, too, she was not soon to forget.

They looked eerily like skulls, each different in their own way, but unnervingly realistic. What were they carved from, if not actual bone? Evans fought off a shiver, standing tall. She would be brave, if not for herself, then the family inside. They did not deserve what she had brought on them. They did not deserve —

A shadow rising from the earth, like a fountain of black blood, bubbling and coalescing, returning to its usual, horrifying form: pale feet, pale hands, pale skin. Molten eyes and monstrous features. Burning, burning eyes.

— the wrath of Lord Voldemort.

“So this is where you have gotten off to, Harri,” he said, taking heart-stopping steps towards her. Every hundredth of a meter he closed between them sent a jolt of icy fear down her spine; but instead of freezing her veins and stopping her heart, it solidified her courageous stance.

“Did you think to go back on your own deal?” he asked. The Dark Lord swooped around her, circling her. “I would think not… Do I not own you? Did I not buy you with my own money — feed you, clothe you, and give you a home to call your own?”

“That place is no home,” she spat before she could stop herself. “And my name isn’t Harri, it’s _Evans._ Why should I cooperate —” Evans grasped at her neck, pulling at the strangling chain wrapped around her throat. “— i-if y-your going to t-treat —!” Her eyes screwed shut against the pain and burning and _she could not breathe._ “— me like an object,” she hissed with her last breath. The chain loosened up and she coughed harshly.

Lord Voldemort grasped her chin, his fingers pressing hard into her skin. “An object?” he murmured. “You’re no mere object, Harri — you are the _Chosen One._ Do you know what that means? No, of course you don’t — it means you are powerful, girl, more powerful than any mere witch or wizard. You can do _anything —_ anything!”

His eyes were lit with a crazy frenzy. Evans tried to shake off his grip but to no avail. His eyes pierced hers, brighter and clearer than anything she had ever before seen — “I will not have you _wandering off_ again,” he said. “Kill the family,” he ordered flippantly, much to her horror.

“No!” screamed Evans, and the ground shook. The house groaned worryingly, but she did not hear it — “No,” she said, “don’t kill them. I will do as you ask. I shouldn’t — I should not have done what I did. It’s my fault, not theirs.”

“They know too much,” said Voldemort, letting her go. Evans shook her head, pained.

“They don’t know. I didn’t tell them anything. They didn’t see the… the mark. So — So _please,_ don’t kill them.”

“And why should I trust your word?” he asked, withdrawing a white wand. “You have lied to me once already, who is to say you will not again?”

“I —” what could she say to convince him? What could she give, that he did not already own? He smiled at her slyly, as though already knowing her thoughts and the turns they would take. No, she would not let him have her completely — he may own her, but he did not own _her._

“You were not fulfilling your end of the deal,” she said. Voldemort’s eyes darkened, his smile growing thin.

“Oh?” he said. “And in what way — I provided you with all your needs, more so, in fact, and yet you spit on my goodwill. I give you my best potions master as a teacher, and you shame me with poor efforts; I give you fine clothes and rooms, and yet you destroy one and throw away the other. What have I not done for you, _Harri_?”

Breathe, she thought, breathe deeply and evenly and surely. “You say you gave me your best potions master, but he is not your best teacher — far from it. You have not taught me yourself, as you so promised. Who am I the apprentice of, you, or _Snape?”_ she asked, _breathingbreathingbreathing_ , _“_ Should I call _him_ master?”

A vitriolic hiss issued from his lips, and Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. The witches and wizards surrounding them flinched back a step, but Evans stood her ground. She would _win._

 _(She would_ fight _.)_

“It seems I have been remiss in leaving you to your lonesome. If my presence is what you wish, then so you shall have it — Severus will no longer teach you potions, nor be in your presence yet again. You will remain by my side at all hours of the day and the night, and _Lord Voldemort_ shall teach you all you need know.”

The hand which had grasped her so tightly caressed her cheek in a mockery of affection. Evans doubted this creature could even feel such an emotion. It was gone in the next instant, grabbing her left hand, twisting a —

Gold band, black stone, familiar familiar familiar _familiar_

— ring on her third finger.

“What is this?” she asked, pulling her hand back once he had released it. A ring, that felt so familiar and so oddly warm and —

“I had hoped to wait a year and a day longer, but you have forced my hand,” he said, and Evans refused to connect the pieces, to look at the finger that was not her middle but _her third_ , a finger he should not have used, to remember an age-old practice that _he could not mean_. “You wish to be my apprentice, and so you shall be.”

“You know of it, do you not?” he continued mercilessly. “A bond matured by the process of teaching and learning, of giving and taking — a master and his apprentice, a magus and his bride.”

Evans had never thought she would find a smile so utterly atrocious as his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me your thoughts in the comments! They make my day <3


	3. finger burning

           There was but one similarity between Evans and Voldemort that she would admit to, and that was their sheer, shared stubbornness directed at their pride, their promises, and their morality.

Voldemort was determined to keep his word. It was confusing, infuriating, utterly mind boggling — this monster had broken greater vows than their own, and yet, and _yet —_ that was neither here nor now. Evans forced those thoughts down, those rapidly descending emotions and paranoia's, as that was her bargain: her promise and her foible; her sole, hypocritical ideal. _Prove yourself to me,_ she had invoked.

Let us see the other in their rawest form.

Lives besides her own were on the line now, and she could not let herself be taken by her emotions again. That was remiss of her, she would admit, and had not been her best moment. She was simply so… _stressed,_ and facing whiplash of the likes she had not felt in years. The last time she had experienced this many changes in such short spans had been before the Dursleys — and she had learned the consequences of such intemperance long past.

There was no excuse for her actions, the still burning, broiling, barely tamed fire just beneath her skin. Evans was stronger than that. She could, _would,_ keep to her end — even if she had to fight her very nature, her very upbringing. Lord Voldemort was a cruel, unforgiving, ruthless, and manipulative man who practiced —

_…a heavy weight upon her whole being, pushing down on her like molasses and murky waters and…_

— the Dark Arts. She had not understood it then, the extent to which his power reached. Evans recognized that palpable darkness as his magic, now. It was incredible, unbelievable, _captivating._ She had never expected someone’s magic to extend beyond their core, to envelop an entire _room_ in its magnificence, but he was proving every one of her preconceived notions wrong.

The Dark Lord was enigmatic, unpredictable, powerful — a riddle she desperately wanted to solve, if only for her sanity’s sake. She would grant him his _blank slate,_ if only to protect those she had unfairly brought under his attention (and perhaps to ease her bleeding pride; she had promised herself she would first judge before judging, and yet, _and yet_ ). There was difficulty in believing that he had bent to her desires, giving mercy to that unnamed family, giving her a second chance.

She would not waste it, she promised herself.

“These will be your new lodgings,” said Voldemort, eyes scouring her form. Evans was still in her dirtied and trashed dress, feet leaving bloody footprints in her wake. “Adjourn to the washroom and remove those filthy garments. I will have new ones procured for you.” She nodded stiffly.

The monster — man? — narrowed his eyes in barely restrained anger, pursing his lips and showing a hint of elongated teeth. She would not call him _my Lord_ even if he threatened her to. Her thoughts must have showed, or the man was as perceptive as she feared, as he turned away and made for the other end of the room. Evans ignored him and entered the washroom.

It was vastly different from her own. The floors were of the same pattern, but in monochrome. Black and faded green wallpaper lined the walls amid grey tile. There was no window, but a clawed foot tub sat just under where one would have been — close to the farthest wall but not quite touching, not quite real. The water was already drawn and steaming.

Evans removed her clothes, tossing them aside, and sunk into the bath. The tension released from her shoulders as she relaxed into the warmth. She let her head fall beneath the waters in a moment of prolonged and utter silence, until her lungs protested and she let her head bob back up above the surface.

“Enjoying yourself?”

Her elbow hit the porcelain side of the tub — distantly, painlessly. Her cheeks heated, already red from the steam and the warmth and now, embarrassment. Shame. Evans choked on her words, forcing them out, her voice high with something she would rather not admit. “Get out! Get out now! I’m naked you — you! You pervert!”

The glimmer of amusement (which had steadily grown with her embarrassed antics) left his eyes. “Hold your tongue, girl. Do you not remember the exact words of our agreement, or are you attempting to cross your end of the deal again? Allow me to elucidate: I said I would be by your side at all times, and I meant _all times._ ”

His words, the ones she wanted more the anything to repress and forget, to let sink beneath the roiling riptides of her troubled mind, sprung to the forefront of her mind:

“— a magus and his _bride_.”

“Don’t you believe in _privacy_? _”_ she said. “I don’t _want_ you to see me naked. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

A test, perhaps.

“Is there something you need be ashamed of?” said Voldemort, one spindly hand curling under his chin. His eyes fell lower on her form and Evans felt herself still; the blood leave her face. How _dare_ he. Her fingers curled around the rim of the bath, the water popping and hissing. The rising heat went unnoticed. Her chest was burning, on fire, her eyes prickling in shame…

Oh, how she _wished_ there was a wall between them right now —!

As if waiting for her call, roots sprouted from the floor, the slabs shuddering and shifting, allowing for tangles of vines to rise up to the ceiling. A trellis of overlapping branches and stems and vines supported a sudden and thick emergence of bougainvillea. She could not see through it, and she dared say neither could he.

“And you think this will stop Lord Voldemort?”

Evans stiffened, the water rippling around her. No, she had not thought as much, but for a mere moment she felt a real wall spring up between them: a silently conversed _can you see what I’m capable of? This is how I feel — this is the_ truth —

“Have your privacy if you so wish it,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “Never let it be said that I am not a merciful Lord.” Not a man — never a man. Evans was feeling sick pool in her throat, and her stomach do twists and turns.

“Thank you,” she bit out, and he was gone.

Evans sunk beneath the waters —

— and she was gone.

* * *

           Her hair was wet and dripping. Evans pulled it to the side, but it refused to stay — it never listened to her, not when it was long and flowing, and neither when it was short like a boy’s. Barely above shoulder length seemed to be the only tolerable haircut she could get. It was her father’s genes, no doubt about it. She could almost remember it, like a dream just out of reach: the wild, untamable black spikes and crooked smile.

“Don’t you have anything other than dresses I can wear?” asked Evans, smoothing down the skirt, purely out of habit. She was not developing a nervous tick, she convinced herself. Most certainly not. Voldemort looked up from whatever it was he was doing and gave her an unreadable look.

“I was under the impression that women enjoyed such frivolities. If you prefer something more practical, write down what it is you want and I will see that it is brought to you.” He returned to his desk.

Evans supposed that was reasonable, but she had illogically gotten her hopes up that he would let her visit town to shop for herself. “Okay,” she said. “Um, thank you. I guess.” Turning away, abashed and aggravated, Evans moved towards the bed. It was nice, but…

Small.

“I guess you’re not expecting us to sleep together,” she said before she could bite her tongue. Her eyes stayed firmly on the mattress, tracing the embroidery of the comforter, and never — not _once_ — straying. Voldemort’s expression would surely tip her patience over the edge.

“That can be arranged,” he murmured against the shell of her ear. Evans jumped across the bed, tumbling to the floor on the other side. She stared up at him with wide eyes, unable to believe the slight hint of amusement and mischief showing in his expression. Scowling, she rose, smoothing the wrinkles in the dress. A nervous tick indeed.

“Bloody skirts and frills and _petticoats_ …” she grumbled. “Where do I write what I want?”

“How curt,” Voldemort noted, but showed her anyway. Her desk, which he had been adding the last touches to, was organized with rolls of fresh parchment and high quality quills, ink pots and books and other small necessities. “This will be your work desk. I expect you to put forth all your effort into your education, understood?”

Evans did not say, “I was before!” or “Snape was a right arse, and you know it.” Instead, she responded blandly with, “Yes, my Lord,” in an exaggerated drawl.

Voldemort slid a piece of parchment towards her. “Your impotence will get you into no small amount of trouble,” he said, but did not correct her. Without replying, Evans took the parchment and began her list. Sometime during her writing Voldemort left into an adjacent room — she could not see it too well from her position, but it looked to be another bedroom.

Setting aside the parchment with a sigh, Evans took the smallest of the books stacked on her desk and began reading.

* * *

           She woke with a gasp, reaching out — her hand was shaking, her fingers stretched and arching towards the ceiling — so close, she had been so _close_ —!

… close to what?

“You fell asleep at your desk,” said Voldemort, who was standing in the doorway. “Your new clothes are in your dresser. Change and follow me.”

Evans had no choice but to take his word at face-value. She could remember reading, the thick parchment sliding under her searching fingertips — the words swimming in and out of focus, her eyelids feeling so very _heavy…_

Perhaps she had fallen asleep as he said. That would mean he — _Voldemort —_ or someone else (which she doubted) undressed her while she was unconscious and… hopefully _only_ put her into sleeping garments.

Leaving that thought for another time, Evans changed into her new trousers and blouse, forgetting all about her earlier worries. Thankfully, her request for socks and shoes had been fulfilled, and she now had something other than her bare feet to walk around on. Why she had not been given any to begin with was a valid, but not to be voiced, question.

Evans refrained from asking the many questions she dearly wished to.  

Voldemort’s eyes fell listlessly on her as she sidled up as close as she dared to his shadow. He made a beckoning gesture and left, and Evans followed after him. They followed an unfamiliar hallway to the entrance hall. Upon their arrival, she realized it was the same hallway she had seen that strange, silver haired apparition leave through.

The entrance hall was devoid of life, unsurprisingly. An echo of Snape’s words reverberated in her thoughts, sending a chill down her spine. She had been so close to being caught — if he _had_ found her, out of her rooms, sneaking off to who knows where, what would he have done with her? The thought left her feeling oddly empty.

She was wrenched from her daze by the hand on her shoulder. Evans stiffened, her muscles growing taut, her teeth clenching. Voldemort’s breath displaced a strand of her hair, letting it fall in her face. A line of blood. A fingertip running over her birthmark. A strange sensation swelling beneath her skin…

Voldemort swept back from her, looking unchanged and unphased. Evans could not say the same for herself. Her heart was doing strange things — trying to beat out of her chest, yet also retreating as far as it could go. She swallowed against her nerves.

“Magic is might,” said Voldemort, soft. “Magic is _might,_ ” he repeated with strength. “And you will show me the extent of yours, child, so be prepared.”

 _“Imperio,”_ he whispered.

A veil fell over Evans’ eyes, like starlight and laced spider web. Her vision was tinted with an unnatural vibrancy, colors bursting and swimming, her head swimming, a voice on the edge of her awareness — _come to me,_ it said. Its words were like dripping honey, tantalizing and cloying.

Her feet moved of their own accord, one step forward, another — was she walking? Was she thinking? _Come to me,_ said her heart. Her heart, doing a strange something, hiding behind her ribs from the encroaching — encroaching?

Darkness. A vile substance, worming through her veins, around her rib-cage. Behind her eyelids, whispering into her mind. _Come to me,_ it said. Her feet were — they were moving — ?

“No,” she said, and the veil disintegrated. “No,” she said again, and her feet stopped, her heart beat, the intruding miasma recoiled. “No!” she commanded, and the spell broke.

The breaths left her chest in ragged heaves, but Evans stood strong. Voldemort was not smiling, but his eyes were lit with approval. “Again,” he said, and Evans was drowning in that sinful lullaby. She swam to the surface, gasping for air, even as he said, “Again,” once more.

An hour. Hours. Days? She did not know, she did not care — the voice, the lascivious touch of his magic against hers, coiling and doing _terrible,_ terrible things. She refused every time, not faltering — not once. Evans was not weak, she was not persuaded, she was not lulled by sweet songs and coaxing words.

 _(Her mother had warned her of strangers: of the way they would beckon her with sweet words, promises of the unpromisable; of how they would lie and lie and_ lie _.)_

“You’re stubborn,” said Voldemort, his wand hanging limply from his grip. It swayed like a pendulum, a hypnotist’s clock. “I like that. The game will last longer that way. But I wonder — can you withstand pain as well as you do pleasure?”

His eyes — red like the blood he has spilt, like magma and brimstone and crackling embers, _red like the roses in her Mum’s garden —_ were glazed with an intense frenzy. A film of sheen muted their usual vibrancy, leaving them a muddled burgundy, a slathering of dried blood. He was not seeing her. Was he seeing her? She could see him, she could, she could see —

Her hand reaching out —

A long, sibilant hiss echoed throughout the room. Evans turned and saw white hair, pale skin, and eyes scarlet like _they should be,_ but framed by snowy eyelashes and shimmering glitter. No, not glitter — scales. Bits of hardened skin, round but slightly pointed at the tips, gathered in small patches across her cheeks and jawline.

Voldemort hissed back at her, in _reply,_ and the not-Lady bowed her head and gathered to leave. Before she left, her eyes caught Evans’, and something — maybe nothing — passed between their locked gazes. When they were alone once again, Voldemort turned to her and stared at her with clear eyes.

“That is enough for today,” he said. “Nagini will escort you back to your room. I have business to take care of.” And with that, he left, leaving Evans to herself in the wide, empty room. She collapsed to her shaking knees, her heart hammering an uneven rhythm.

Nagini, she learned, was the strange snake-woman, a naga. She had not heard of their kind before reading the books Voldemort had given her. Nagini was the one to guide her back to her rooms, and the one to escort her throughout the manor, no matter when or where she needed to go. The naga never spoke to her, but sometimes Evans heard soft hissing noises issue from her parted lips.

Voldemort would engage her in hissed conversations, even (or perhaps especially) when around Evans. His eyes would soften minutely when they landed on the naga, and the expression was so uncharacteristic and unexpected of him that she could not help but voice her thoughts one day.

“What was that?” he said, turning from his work — she did not know exactly what he did, or what it was Dark Lords did besides terrorizing people, but he had some work that he was always immersed in — and settled his full attention on her. He was like that, giving his full focus to anything that truly intrigued him, as much it pained her to admit.

“I —” she grimaced. Could she really just ask him? No, the idea was too strange for her to consider. “I was wondering what you’re working on.”

“Oh?” He smirked in a way that irked her.

“Yes,” Evans replied back tartly. Voldemort turned back away from her, and she felt as though she had been snubbed. “Fine then,” she said. “Don’t tell me. It’s probably some horrible Dark Lord business anyway.”

Voldemort laughed softly. “Oh, child,” he said, “How little you know of this world amuses me.” He hummed softly. “Yes… Your next lesson. Tell me, why are you so much more special than the average witch or wizard?”

Her hand reached up, unbidden, to touch her birthmark. “I’m the Chosen One,” she said quietly. “I don’t need to depend on my magical core to do magic; I can draw it from my surroundings.”

“You _were_ listening, then,” he remarked. “Good. There is more to it than that, however: the Chosen One wields a power, a secret power — one that is unique solely to you, child. For this lesson you will enter a state of meditation. Feel your magic, succumb to it… peer into your soul and tell me what you _see._ ”

“My soul,” murmured Evans. She closed her eyes, feeling her chest rise and fall and her heart thump loudly, rhythmically. Her magic rose, like a wave reaching higher altitudes, the current building beneath and urging it to touch the sky. The ocean was spreading, opening to reveal a light — a sphere of gentle but intense white light.

No, she thought, as the image grew closer, the light burned brighter and the waves rushed in her ears. It was a fire, a star burning at her core, white flames licking at the ocean’s bottom. There was no ocean. The wave crashed down on her, all fire and unbearable heat. Warmth.

“Oh, Harri,” her mother said, stroking her hair. She was seated in her lap, crying into her chest. She was so very warm… “It’s alright, darling. It’s going to be alright. Mum’s here, I won’t leave you.”

“Mum,” she cried, the beat of her mother’s heart loud in her ears. “Where did Da’ go? And brother? Why did they lea- _eave?_ ” She hiccuped. Her mother only held her tighter in response.

“I love you, Harri,” she said, curling around her. “I love you, and I’ll never let you go. I’ll always love you, until the very end. Don’t ever forget that.”

Love. Her mother’s red hair. Love. The beat of her heart — one, two. The warmth. Love. Warm. Like fire. Harri was crying.

Something warm.

“Well?” said Voldemort, his tone cold like a winter wind blowing through. Harri — Evans felt warm. What had that been? A memory, a vision? Something else? She could almost hear it now, the beat of her mother’s heart, the caress of her hand atop her head… the warmth.

“I think,” she said, “that my power is love.”

“Love?” repeated Voldemort, nothing like the honey-rich way it fell from her lips. Disgust and incredulousness. “Don’t be foolish,” he said, sneering. His eyes — molten and burning, dark and unnatural and _cold_ — “Love is a weakness, a liability to be used and discarded. Love?” He laughed mockingly. “Try again. This time, look deeper —”

“No,” said Evans.

“No?” he said dangerously. “No? You deny me the right to teach you? Do you _want_ to go back on our deal?” His eyes narrowed to slits, more like a serpent's than Snape’s had ever been. “I could kill that blood traitor family,” he said, voice deceptively soft. “It would be so easy. They wouldn’t even have time to realize it had been _you —_ ”

“Fine!” she spat. “Fine, have it your way. But I’m not doing it here.” The idea of that family, so nice and caring and _warm,_ suffering because of _her…_

“Then I will send for Nagini —”

“No,” she interrupted, and his _dark_ eyes snapped to her. Evans pursed her lips, refusing to cower back. “No,” she repeated, less curt and more matter of fact. “If you want me to — to, meditate, or look into my soul, then I need time alone.” She was going crazy, being watched every minute of every hour. “I won’t leave the grounds.”

“You had better not,” hissed Voldemort, rising imperiously above her. He looked down at her, all threatening darkness and pale bone, “Or else someone might get _hurt._ ”

Evans swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Of course,” she said, nodding. “I know that.” _I know you’re making a mistake. I knew who you are, and you’re only giving me motive to believe that._ Something deep inside her gave way at that: somewhere, hidden beneath all her malice and stubbornness, Evans (Harri?) had wanted to believe even someone like Voldemort could be redeemed.

Could be understood.

_Love is a weakness._

“I will never give up love,” she whispered to herself, leaning against the hallway wall. _I will never give up love,_ whispered Harri, nine and too young to be all alone. I will never give up love, she thought, even as love gave up on her.

She escaped to the garden. It was nice there, calm yet invigorating — that small bit of vibrancy fighting for its presence amongst the plain stone and hedges. Evans had even discovered a niche of her own within the garden: an area surrounded by thick, impenetrable bushes and bright flower beds.

It was secluded, it was peaceful, it was the perfect place for her to get away and to be _alone —_

Except someone was there. Standing, looking no small amount lost and worried, or perhaps some mix of disgruntled and exasperated. Exhausted. He certainly did look exhausted, and that was putting it lightly. Evans took a step closer, and she was sure it was silent — but at the slightest movement the man’s head was whipping around to face her.

His skin was not at all pale, but his face was lit like moonlight. Silver scars were scrawled across his skin in strict lines, curving swirls, fading blemishes. Evans looked away so she would not stare, but it was… transfixing.

“Hello?” he said, and his voice was an echo of a memory, a hazy reminiscence verging on nostalgic. “I’ve never seen you here before. You’re not… You’re not _lost,_ are you?” he asked. Evans took an involuntary step backwards. “I’m — you don’t need to worry, see?” His hands went up, and she could see two mirrored sets of scars on his palms: criss-cross lines, growing thicker near the center.

Something about the man made her head hurt. Was it his voice, his appearance, his expression? His soft eyes and pale scars? The atmosphere of —

of —

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Evans immediately responded before she could bite her tongue. “Who are you? No one else is supposed to be here.” The man shuffled a bit.

“Oh,” he said. “I — um. My name is… You may call me Romulus,” he told her. The name, title, nickname — it did not suit this man, this soft eyed, kind smiling man with too many scars and too little life. Perhaps that was what she had been picking up on: his lack of vivacity — of vigor and hope and direction. He reminded her a lot of —

“C’mon, Harri! You can get higher than that!” called her father, not too far below but still a ways down. The wind was whipping at her feet, tossing up her hair in a swirl of autumn red.

“Dear, she’s still too small to be flying that high —” worried her mother, but another voice, one like dark waters and empty streets and barking laughter —

“It’s fine, Evans,” he said, patronizingly — dark and familiar and _thumpthumpthump_

“It’s not Evans anymore —”

“Harri! Just like that. Keep your feet tucked in!”

“Prongs —”

— of someone else.

“Romulus,” she whispered, the name foreign on her tongue, but somehow, almost right. “Is that — Have we met before?” The man did not immediately respond. Evans felt her heart begin to beat rapidly, though she could not identify why. Was it the memories his voice, his familiar but _wrong_ name had drudged up? “Romulus,” she said again. “That’s not your name, is it? Not your true name, obviously — but it’s not… it’s not your title —”

“It’s not,” he agreed quickly. Hastily. “My title — I,” the words stuck in his throat like glue and smoke and choking waters. “I’ve forgotten them,” he told her, finding the ability to confide in her, a stranger, a girl he has only met in the deepest part of the Dark Lord’s garden.

But that is a lie.

“I’ve forgotten my title, my chosen name, my… my _true name_ …”

Her heart pulsed with the beat of a raging inferno. Blood rushed through her ears like the floods which could topple houses, destroy villages. Drag the women and the men and the children beneath. It was invigorating, exciting, a force to be reckoned.

“I could help you,” she said, her cheeks heating. She knew this man. The chain around her throat burned, but that was not unfamiliar. She knew — She _knew —_

“No,” he said. “No. I chose this. I chose this life, and I trust myself to have known what I was doing when I did it —”

“What?” said Harri — Harri, not Evans, _Harri —_ “How could you? You gave up your true name? Your _self?_ Why would you ever —?” Rushing, rushing like a waterfall and turbulent stream and —

“Stop,” the man — Romulus, someone, someone else someone familiar someone she _knows_ — said. Harri stopped in her tracks, unknowingly having gotten closer to the not-stranger. Evans understood the pain and the acceptance and the _weariness_ in his voice. “Stop. I chose this for a reason, I’m sure. I’m sure,” he repeated.

Who was he trying to convince?

“You’re so young,” he said instead, eyes softening further, if at all possible. “So young and innocent. It’s very kind of you to offer to help me, but I’m afraid…”

_I’m beyond help._

Harri’s —

Evans’ —

 _Her_ heart ached.

“What are you doing here, lost in the Dark Lord’s garden? He’s not — He’s not keeping you captive here, is he?”

Would it be a lie to say he was not?

Warmth spread up her hand.

“I could help you,” he said, turning her own words, her own offer —

Her _deal —_

— on her. “If you want to, I could help you escape — I know of a group —”

The warmth was expanding, flourishing, blossoming like a summer night’s firework across her fingers — her knuckles and joints and the space between her pinky and middle —

It _burned —_

Like his _eyes —_

_HarriHarriHarri_

“No,” she said, hopefully not too hastily. “I’m fine. Really. I chose to be here. I _choose_ to be here.”

The man left after that with a few more parting words. Even after his departure, she could still feel the remaining vestiges of his visit — his _being._ Evans took a seat beneath the hydrangeas, letting her rapid pulse calm to a smoother, slower, calmer beat. Voldemort — no, she would not think of escaping again. She had already put too many in danger.

Her fingers sought out the ring — gold banded, black stone, warmer than her skin — and touched it lightly. It was growing hotter every minute. It was —

_Where are you?_

— whispering?

Was that… Voldemort? Was he looking for her?

… Did she _want_ him to find her?

The heat emanating from the ring _burst,_ and Evans bit her lip and nearly her tongue to keep from _screaming_ out in pain. Horrible, unbearable, impossible _pain._ It lasted that way for what felt to be forever — going on and on and _on_ like it would never end —

Until it did.

 _HarriHarriHarri_ echoed in the back of her mind, or from the faint buzz the ring was producing. One or the other, it did not matter, because there was something —

Something _desperate_ about it.

Her heart ached with — with —?

Anger. It was anger, hot and boiling and so so very _enraged! How dare she!_ How dare Harri —

That wasn’t her name! _That wasn’t her name!_

— leave him and _betray_ —

The anger was gone in a flash, replaced by an overwhelming sense of _agony,_ of _betrayal_ and — something else — something like _longing_.

Longing? Wanting. Missing. Something was missing, taken from him, _left him…_

The feelings that she now recognized as not hers faded from her mind, from her very self. Evans returned to find her palms pressed against her forehead, over her birthmark, red blinding everything —

She pulled her hands back to see bloody palms and nails.

Evans rose, walking towards the dilapidated bird fountain, pieces of stone chipping off and moss blossoming at the foot. The water’s murky surface reflected her face, waxy and bloodstained. She dunked her palms into the water and scrubbed.

Desperate yearning burnt a hole in the back of her mind, like a thudding staccato, a bird pecking at the window. It would not leave her alone, no matter how she tried to ignore and forget — the memory buoyed to the surface like a drowned corpse.

A corpse in a garden pond.

An awful comparison, that.

Once she had nearly washed all the blood — _evidence,_ a voice whispered — from herself, Evans swallowed the knot in her throat, the bile in her throat, the scream in her throat.

“I’m here,” she whispered —

— and let the iron door swing open.

Shadows at her ankles, thorns trapping her shins, a heady weight pressing on her back and shoulders and heart — _his magic,_ dark magic, magic. The chain tightened and pulsed and the ring burned and her eyes burned and everything was —

Burning. Always.

“Voldemort,” she greeted, to which the specter of a man hissed and revealed himself from the shadows. Her heart thudded heavily in her chest and ears. She imagined the anger, the vitriolic emotions that consumed everything and anything, the merciless eyes and —

They were burning bright, truly, but like the brightest of embers, the reddest of flowers, the morning sun breaking the horizon before a perilous storm. His eyes were bright and red and looking at her with such undiluted emotion. What was it? What was he looking at her with that made his eyes burn so bright, so very much like —

Hissed whispers and sibilant laughs, soft glances and dancing fingers —

— when he was with _her._

“Oh, Harri,” he said, thin lips caressing her name (not her name nothername) with… endearment? No, most certainly not; it was indulgence and nothing more. “I was growing worried about you, child.” Voldemort stalked closer. “Someone who wasn’t supposed to be here was wandering the grounds.”

“You didn’t hurt him, did you?” she asked quickly, wringing her hands. Voldemort’s eyes narrowed and darkened.

“No,” he hissed. “And you did not leave with him.” It was a statement, not a question. Evans shook her head. What had that meant? Of course she did not leave — she could not. That is what she told herself.

“You have been through much today, Harri.” His hand reached out as though to touch her cheek, but he pulled it back before they met. “Return to your rooms.”

“What did you do with him? The man, Romulus?” Evans cannot help but ask.

“I sent him on his way,” dismissed Voldemort. “He came for a potion, but my Potions Master no longer resides here.”

Snape. She was glad to not see him anymore. Though, in his place, Evans now saw Voldemort twice — no, thrice — as much. Was it a worthwhile trade? She still was not sure. Evans bit her tongue harshly to not ask of what became of Snape. She had already pushed her boundaries enough as it was — testing the chains and bars of her, a pet’s, cage.

Her shoulders drew back in a tense line when long and cold fingers ran through her hair. They smoothed her scalp in a repetitive motion, like one pets a dog or soothes a petulant child. She waited for the eventual grip on her scalp, the burning pain of her head wrenched back and the spotlight and the crowd —

“A gift,” he breathed, displacing the few strands of hair near her ear, “for my loyal apprentice.”

Evans swallowed the lump in her throat, the unease that flooded her nerves and the urge to _make him stop,_ and stayed impossibly still beneath his unwanted touch. She beckoned her lungs to hold out a little longer, for them to wait for his looming presence to recede. He did, and she breathed, but the scent lingered: cold like ice laced mist and earthy like petrichor.

He left her there, standing and stubborn, too proud to escape with her tail between her legs. She was not a Potter — no longer, not anymore — so then _why?_

Why did she fight so hard for a pride she lost long ago?


	4. with a one-sided vow

           “So… you’ll let me go?” she said, tentatively, hesitantly, the taste of freedom on her tongue — sweet like honey and sharp like nectar. “You’ll let me go out on my own?” Impossible scenarios sprung to mind, tantalizing and tempting: walking through town, unhindered and unheeded, visiting that nice family of gingers…

Perhaps not the last. But the idea was a thrilling one — an improbable, inconceivable, fantastic one.

“Yes,” said Voldemort, all sly smiles and hooded eyes. His expression was condescending, almost expectant. It ignited a suspicion in her, a desperate curiosity to know what was he planning. Freedom always had its price, she knew, and so did he continue: “I would prefer if you were to be chaperoned by one of my followers.” He paused. “However, ah, I find myself wondering how well that might go over.” His eyes, narrowed in a facsimile of amusement, glinted with promise.

Evans shuffled, chest tight with some unidentifiable emotion. Her previous attempts to escape had not been subtle or few, and this generous acquisition of freedom (clipped wings though they may be) was seemingly undeserved. He was not wrong in determining that a chaperone — guide, watcher, handler — would not be well received on her end.

“I —” _obedience_ , whispered a tenuous voice. Obedience and bashfulness. Duck your head, lower your eyes. Evans’ eyelashes fluttered, the unconscious pull to survive in any way possible lulling her into old habits. “Thank you,” she murmured, head falling slightly, bangs shrouding her eyes.

A cold touch on her chin tipped her perspective up and into red eyes. Voldemort smiled. “Demureness does not suit you,” he said, frustratingly. The man was a contradiction: wanting her to obey him, then the next moment expecting her to fight back. Grimacing, Evans pulled away, but her chin stayed pridefully high.

Her heart hurt.

Unbidden, her hand found its way to her chest. Her heart thumped softly beneath the layers of her cloak and blouse. Something else, however, was hurting alongside it: something sharp and unrepentant, aching with a forgotten voracity. A somber wave of comfort flushed across her core, like a wash of moonlight over a midnight field. Evans sighed, and the ache receded.

Voldemort was watching her with keen eyes. Turning her head so as to subtly snub him, Evans _felt_ rather than saw his displeasure. His magic crackled in warning, the hairs on the backs of her arms standing on edge — his aura was a swirling black mess, a vortex of passionate emotions threatening to consume. She breathed — one in, another out — and allowed his magic wash over her without lingering.

“You are learning,” he noted, a tinge of pride to his voice. “Good. As a Chosen One, you absorb the ambient magic unconsciously — and not all magic is beneficial to you. It will aid you greatly to learn to control that aspect of your gift, and weaponize it. Don’t allow it to hinder _you_.”

“Weaponize?” said Evans, blinking. “What do you mean by —?” she paused. Her eyes widened fractionally, then darkened with a smoldering rage. “I knew it,” she said, then louder, “I knew it! I knew you were using me for some scheme. But you know what, Voldemort? I’m never going to fight for you! I’m never going to — mph!”

Her lips sealed themselves shut, stuck together like two seams meeting. Evans pushed her fingers into the line of her mouth, frantically pushing and prying. Her heart leapt into her throat. Would Voldemort always get the better of her?

“Be quiet,” he said dispassionately, as though he were not affected in the least. Evans would beg to differ, and yet, she could not speak a single syllable. “Ignorance should be snuffed out before it spreads. You know not of my intentions nor of my motivations, and it will stay that way until you can prove yourself capable of _thinking_.”

Evans _burned._ Oh, how she hated this man — how she wished she could turn his own actions back on himself. How would _he_ like to have his mouth sewn shut? A wry grin crept upon her lips. Yes, she would love to see that.

_I can think just fine._

Voldemort recoiled back as if struck. His eyes were wide — marginally so, but significantly for him — and his lips slightly parted in shock. It was a satisfying expression, though Evans had no inkling as to what caused it. She hoped, somehow, someway, that it had been due to her. It would be karma at its finest — or, at the very least, a harmless form of pay back.

His expression returned to its usual stoniness and his eyes narrowed in their familiar, aggravated way. “Leave,” he snarled, and Evans was surprised by her own confusion. She had not expected this — this display of lack in self control. The Dark Lord’s eyes were burning, a deep, molten red, and his aura… Evans did not wish to chance it, yet she also felt indignantly angry. What had _she_ done beside stand there, immobilized and muted? Who was he, to act as though his actions were justified?

Who was he, she thought, with a growing scowl, but the Dark Lord Voldemort himself?

* * *

           The town was bustling with energy and impatience, a sort of frenzied rushing to and fro that made Evans’ heart race. She had never been bothered by crowds before — though she could not remember a time when she was surrounded by one as impersonal as this. Little Whinging had been busy, certainly, but with the familiarity of neighbors and the elderly, children and home-bound wives; this was a sea of empty faces, empty people, empty meetings.

Evans kept close to the sidewalk, her palms gently quaking as they sought out the walls and corners of stores she passed. There was a dizziness to her steps, a sensation of free falling, a desperate need for support. The edges of the walkways provided that — the reprieve of the crowds, the stability of brick beneath her fingers.

She took in more of the buildings and businesses because of this — much preferring it to the swarm of faces she would never see again — even with their fake flowers spread out beneath perfect panes of glass, posters that promoted sweet nothings, employees with plastic smiles. It was all very dizzying, sickening.

Except —

Like a mirage in a desert, an unreal and misplaced scene, there was a store that stood out in every which way — with yellowed windows gathering dust, an aging, creaking door, tattered and molding books with faded, classic covers — and yet it went completely unnoticed. Perhaps it was only Evans that thought it odd, and it was in fact just a simple, if poorly placed, bookstore from an age past.

 _Grimmauld Books_ looked interesting enough, and if nothing else, a nice reprieve from the bustle of the city.

The inside of the store was almost unnaturally silent: the clamor of the outside world had faded to a charged hum, drifting in and out of hearing, her footfalls and the creak of aging wood all that really mattered anymore. The shelves were filled with books: aging, antique, seemingly unimportant or nonsensically placed.

A crash sounded in the back. It was the thump of someone, or something particularly heavy, falling over. There was a muttered curse, heavy and hurried footfalls, and the sudden wrenching of a door being opened and closed.

“Hello? I hadn’t been expecting any customers today —?”

The man was lean, almost awkwardly so. His hair was wiry, a sharp copper color that dulled in thinning patches. Crow’s feet spread beneath and around his eyes as he squinted, judging Evans with more (suspicion? curiosity? familiarity?) than she prepared for.

She never did seem to be prepared adequately for anything anymore.

Evans took a step back, shaking her head. “No.” She paused. “I was just passing through. Good afternoon,” she bid goodbye; but turning, a warm and calloused hand (nononono _nonono_ ) wrapped around her wrist. With a gasp and jerk, Evans pulled her arm free, heart fluttering in her chest like a frenzied bird.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, appearing, for all intents and purposes, apologetic.

“You didn’t,” Evans replied tartly. “You just — startled me.” That had to have been it. She could not explain otherwise why she reacted as she did.

“Oh,” he murmured, seeming to (finally!) sense her desperation to leave and never again continue this conversation. If Evans had any say in the matter, she would rather isolate herself in some remote cottage far from society and never speak to another living being again. She was quickly becoming disillusioned to the _enjoyment_ of socializing — if this could even be called that; if that term was even applicable to her _life._

Evans turned again, making her way for the door, hoping to whichever higher power that did not despise her in every which way possible, that he would not try to grab her again. She dare not think what she would do if he did; she was at her wits limit for this outing, and if her temper had made anything apparent throughout the years, then that would not bode well for him — whoever he was.

“Ah, wait!” he called, pausing at the door, watching her with some combination of reluctance and desperation. It was an odd mix, and did not look good on him at all.

“Are you bothering this young lady?”

Evans stilled beneath a hand on her shoulder.

The copper-haired man blinked, expression falling into one much more familiar to her: cold wariness. He narrowed his eyes at the newest arrival, whom Evans had yet to turn and see, and said, “No,” with a shake of his head, nigh rueful.

“Then what did it _seem_ as though you were bothering her for?” sniped the stranger, whose hand was cold and heavy and _dangerous._ Evans did not dare move a muscle — not even twitch as he seemed to loom over her.

“I was simply going to ask for her name.”

The grip on her shoulder turned from lead to iron to steel — the clamp of jaws over skin, the sudden sensation of falling, of darkness roiling and convulsing and — sliding back into a loose (but no less caging) press of his palm against her shoulder blade. Evans could almost _feel_ the ease of his smile, slick and _false,_ aimed at the copper-haired man.

“That’s quite the… _private_ thing to ask, is it not, for someone you’ve only just met?”

A scowl met his words. “No, it’s not,” said the man. “In fact, if people like _you_ stopped making it such a big deal, then there would be no matter to argue over. That girl — she needs someone to guide her, not fill her head with old practices and _dark_ —”

Steel. A clench. A disorienting laugh. “Guide her? This girl isn’t one of your charity cases, _Arthur_.”

His face turned red, and lips pursed in an effort not to explode. His eyes flickered to Evans, who stayed perfectly still and _blank_ — neither of what she heard and saw made sense, but this man was dangerous, and the other —

(Arthur. King of Camelot. A knight. A savior? Trustworthy?)

“You know it’s against the law to abuse names in such a manner,” he growled lowly. “And I have every right to worry about her. If she doesn’t know about our world then she should.” His eyes fell on her. “Right, dear? I can help you. You’re probably lost and confused. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

One word. She could say it. He would — Arthur would help her.

_“I could help you,” he said —_

She paused for a moment too long.

“Let’s go.” The vice on her shoulder tugged her along, guiding her away and into the bustling streets, the mirage that had been _Grimmauld Books_ fading into nothingness. The stranger was much younger in appearance than she had expected, with sandy hair that laid flat and a discomfiting lack of facial lines. His tongue flicked from his mouth before he smiled, all shark teeth and scented blood. “It’s a good thing for you that I showed up when I did. I’m Alastor, Alastor Moody.”

“That’s a lie.” She tasted the air, his adder tongue flicked — _false false false._ The man laughed, loud and boisterous, almost a cackle. The passersby spared him no glance — Evans suspected they did not even see them.

“That, you’re right. I go by Barty. What were you doing at that blood traitor’s shop, little Missus?”

Her skin prickled beneath the surface, like the fine needles of a cactus. She threw off his hold, swift and violent. “I told him —! He said he would not send anyone to follow me!” Barty shrugged, sending her anger to new heights.

“I haven’t the slightest what my Lord told you, as I was not there; but whatever he said, there had surely been some loophole in it. My Lord has a silver tongue like none other.” He grinned, eyes crinkling, tongue flicking. Evans grimaced and stomped off, feeling childish for doing so but simultaneously illogically pleased.

Her feet led her back to the bookstore, though she was beginning to suspect it was more than just that. There was no shadow lingering beyond her own, and though she still felt the remnants of unease at being followed, Evans shook it off. Even if there was more to what he had said, more than what she had read between the lines, there was still the promise of freedom — _clipped wings though they may be,_ bounced around her head — of _exploration._ She would learn the boundaries of her cage on her own.

And if that meant rattling the bars, then rattle them she would.

“What do you sell here?” she asked Arthur, who startled behind the counter. He turned and faced her, pallor glowing behind his freckles. He looked shaken — as though he had seen a ghost.

“How —?” he stuttered, before shaking his head and coming around the side to meet her. “I sell books, of course. This is a bookstore. That man from earlier — do you know him?”

“I do,” Evans lied, feeling as though it were her best option; it would be difficult to explain why a stranger led her off and she went willingly with him, only to come back on her own, no worse for wear. “Sort of. He knows my… guardian. I only just moved here though, and I’m afraid I’m a bit out of the loop. This _is_ a magic shop, isn’t it?”

“Ah, it — it is,” he admitted. “I had thought, seeing as you were so confused… that you didn’t know. That you were a muggleborn. I get them sometimes, wondering into my shop without really knowing what it is.”

“Can only magicals see your shop? I thought it was odd that everyone was simply passing by it without a second glance,” she said, steering past his odd mentioning of muggleborn — the word sounded familiar, but she would rather keep her appearance of someone knowledgeable than shatter the illusion for information she could easily weed out on her own.

“Yes, there’s a charm on it that dissuades muggles from getting too close. For safety reasons, of course,” he assured quickly. “Not that we — I — have any problem with muggles. I quite like them in fact,” Arthur rambled. “You don’t seem like the type to hate muggles,” he ventured.

She shrugged. “I don’t feel strongly about either side,” she said, impartial. “Though I don’t advocate violence of any sort, or towards anyone for that manner. We’ve gotten off track though — what _do_ you sell here?”

“Oh! Well, I’ve got books for sale, though you already knew that. I’m a bit of an inventor myself, and I dabble with combining magic and machines — muggle creations, that is. They’re made from metal and are powered by elek-trissy. Come, let me show you,” he said, already heading further into the shop without her. Evans followed behind him after a moment’s deliberation.

In all the years she had lived with the Dursleys, Evans had come to ascertain one fact: her and technology did not mix.

“I’m not sure if that would be a good idea —” she tried, but he waved off her concerns.

“I promise you it’s all perfectly safe,” he reassured.

The room was small, or perhaps only appeared so in its cluttered state. Desks and bookshelves lined the walls, a wardrobe on one end (that was likely not filled with clothes, but rather the metal trinkets that littered the floor) and a large trunk in the center. A tiny fireplace was nearly hidden behind all the furniture and scraps cramped into the room, but the soot stains that led to it were fairly noticeable, and thus not allowing it to fade into the noisy background.

Evans stood awkwardly while Arthur puttered around the room, muttering to himself and picking up strange, and occasionally familiar, items. “No, not this,” he would say, or, “Definitely not it,” as he tossed another item into the steadily growing pile. He eventually did find what he was looking for, startling Evans out of her daze with a sudden shout of, “A- _ha!”_

The object was small, compact, and covered in a dusting of black soot. Arthur flushed and quickly cleaned off the tarnish, holding the item aloft once more for her to look at. It was interesting, certainly, and unlike any device she has seen before. It was so odd in appearance that she had no idea what it could be, despite having some experience with technology.

“What is it?” she asked, and though her curiosity begged her, Evans kept her hands firmly at her sides.

“Why, it’s a radio, of course!” said Arthur. “Except I’ve polished it up some. It was a bit banged up when I got it, missing more than a few parts to make it run, so I made do with what I had and had magic do the rest.” He reached for her hand. “Here, have a closer look —”

Evans saw the spark of electricity jump from the radio towards her fingers, Arthur’s palm wrapped around hers, _heart stuttering in her chest,_ and she knew what would happen before it did.

“No, wait —!”

Starbursts of white light erupted behind Evans’ eyes as she recoiled, hand radiating with pain so hot it was bitingly cold. It _was_ hot, however, and as though seeking to remind her of that fact, it flashed with waves of gut-roiling heat. She shook her hand, hoping to find some relieve in the brush of air.

“Oh, oh no. Here, uh, let me — wait, some water…”

Suddenly her hand was doused in a spray of water, a temporary respite but nonetheless futile in fixing the problem.

“It’s fine,” said Evans through grit teeth. Arthur wrung his hands together.

“That’s never happened before. I’ve — well, it’s never worked before either, but it’s never been so… explosive.”

“Magic and electricity don’t get along.”

“I suppose so…” said Arthur.

For all intents and purposes, he appeared properly apologetic, but Evans could only think that she should have expected such an outcome. Angry with herself, and at the man whom she had trusted to be the one person not to hurt her (everyone did, _everyone did_ ) she turned for the door.

“I should go. And get this healed.” A pause. “Good day.”

“Wait!” said Arthur, reaching out to grab her hand once again, but stopping abruptly. It was red and irritated, skin blistered and grey with ash. “My wife has some burn ointment. It would only take a minute, and I really must do something for you as an apology. That shouldn’t have happened, and I regret letting it.”

Evans was prepared to say no, to deny him of anymore trust he would surely misuse, but her mind was ahead of her decisions: she would leave, she would walk down the streets bustling with people and cars, and she would, without a doubt, run into that Barty fellow again.

“And… how would we be getting there?”

His look of a downtrodden puppy vanished as he brightened, apparently gladdened by being able to help her. “Well, I could apparate you, or we could take the floo,” he said, gesturing to the fireplace. The realization then dawned on him that it was both surrounded in clutter and in a disastrous state of its own: caked with ash and whatever else might be dirtying the room. Arthur flushed and flicked his wand, murmuring a spell that swiftly cleaned up the mess.

“Here —” he helped her over equipment, careful of her injured hand and generously light in his touch. Perhaps he had noticed her aversion to it, then. When she made it to the fireplace, he instructed her on the proper way to get to where they were going — “You throw this into the fire and it will turn green. Then you step in and shout your destination — The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole,” and warned her, “Be sure to speak clearly and loudly. You’ll do fine.”

Evans most certainly did _not_ do fine, tumbling out of the fireplace with a mouth full of ash and sparks flashing in her watering, tightly scrunched shut eyes. Her stomach squeezed and jumped into her throat, making her gag as her head spun and throbbed.

“Oh dear,” said a familiar voice.

“MUM,” came a distant echo through the floorboards. Evans gratefully accepted a glass of water as she rubbed her burning, itching eyes. The ash was stuck between sclera and eyelid, and clawed to get at the frustrating itch. “What was that sound? Is Da’ already home?”

“IT WAS NOTHING,” she called back, bustling over to the couch where she had corralled Evans into sitting. “Was that your first time using the floo?” she said to her, helping brush off the soot stains on her clothes. Evans could not help but flinch into the back cushion of the couch when the woman’s fingers brushed against the hair that had fallen in her face. “Oh! I’m sorry. I was only trying to get that hair out of your face.”

“It’s okay,” murmured Evans, clutching her knees to her chest. The backs of her knuckles were brought up to scrub at her eyes again, then wipe the smudges on her cheeks.

“It’s so strange, though,” she suddenly said. Unable to staunch the curiosity, Evans looked up from her bowed head position to the woman who was intently studying her. Her heart dropped into her stomach, her stomach into her throat, and then her heart decided to do something decidedly fluttery. “A few days ago another little girl just dropped in suddenly! She had the most beautiful red hair, though; not like us gingers’ — but a deep, fiery red. Not a freckle in sight. She was pale though, certainly… You are quite a bit too, dear. Are you feeling well?”

“Y-Yes,” she choked out. The woman — the red headed mother? — did not recognize her? Evans peeked through the curtain of hair that was hiding her face. It was soot stained black and even messier than it had been before. It almost looked like it would if — if she had taken after her father more than her mother. The thought unnerved her so much so that she shivered.

“Now don’t you lie to me,” the mother scolded, making the blood drain from Evans’ face. She wagged her finger in what should have been a nonthreatening, kindly manner; but Evans found herself sinking in on herself, panic freezing her thoughts in place. “I saw that shiver. Are you coming down with something? How about a cup of tea?”

There was a loud thump and then a groan.

“Molly?”

“Goodness,” she muttered to herself under her breath, heaving a put upon sigh. Then, to Evans, she said, “Forgive my husband. He’s quite clumsy.” And then, to Arthur: “DEAR, WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT WATCHING YOUR HEAD?”

“To watch it?” he called back uncertainly.

“That’s right!” she returned. Molly, as Arthur had called her, turned to Evans one last time to say, “Just a moment, but I need to tend to my husband for a short second. I’ll be back in no time, with your tea and a washcloth,” before bustling off in the vague direction of the fireplace just around the corner. Evans, certain that she was occupied for the time being, stood up quickly with no direction in mind other than a way to escape.

Voldemort would do terrible things to these people if ever found out she returned here — even if by accident — and so she was determined to make it so that he never would. First, by leaving before they recognized her. Second, by forgetting any of this ever happened.

Of course, as her luck would have it, the house was practically a maze: with its odd assortments of furniture and decorations, magical housewares scuttling about and under her feet, Evans was certain the door would take longer to reach than it would for Arthur and Molly to cease bickering. To further her distress, as soon as she passed the family’s roosting bird, it erupted into flames.

Holding her hands up, Evans prepared for it to screech in agony, but it never did. Nevertheless, the flames continued to spurt embers and rise precariously towards the ceiling, and figuring that her hands were already burnt as it was - she decided to attempt to put out the flames herself before she accidentally killed the poor family’s bird.

The sensation of a hook catching her navel and dragging her through a tight, familiar space reminded her suddenly of when she took that awful stranger’s hand at the playground. It seemed so long ago now, yet also painfully recent: the stark white of his hair, the ice of his eyes, the burn of the manacles around her wrists —

She landed far more gracefully (though still in a heap of tangled limbs and aching muscles) than she had with the floo. Rather than the cold stone floors of a cell, or the warm creaking wood of a stranger’s home, she landed on soft, marshy grass.

A hand appeared suddenly in her vision.

“Would you like a hand, Harri?”

Before she could take up the offering, she retracted her hand, quick as a rearing snake. She looked up, and yet further up, at the strange man in billowing robes with no little amount of suspicion.

“How do you know that name?” she asked him.

“I know many things,” he told her, his smile soft and not out of place in the least. There was a raised but pale scar across the bridge of his nose, and his eyes were like two reflections of a clear summer day’s sky. Auburn hair tumbled down his back in gently swaying waves, held loosely out of his face by a smattering of hidden plaits and ties.

“Such as?” Evans inquired, feeling oddly at ease with the man’s presence. The flaming bird, which had been flying circles above their heads for some portion of the conversation, swooped down and landed on his outstretched hand, preening under his careful attention.

“I know, for instance,” he told her, “that there a great many things you do not know, but should, about your fate, and the person tied to you by it.”

“I don’t believe in fate.” Rising to her feet, she took in her surroundings: cascading hills of green, the distant peek of trees over the horizon, and the grand shadow of a castle looming in the distance. “Not that I would believe anything you have to say in the first place. I don’t even know who you are, or where I am.”

“My name is Albus Dumbledore,” he said, and the _weight_ of his true name fell over her in a cascade of warmth and _power,_ “and welcome to Hogwarts, the last refuge for dragons, Harri Potter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry at the lateness of this chapter. I've been dealing with health issues, real life problems, and some severe writer's block that I just got over. This fic will never be abandoned because I adore it and have hundreds of ideas for it I have yet to cover. This chapter also hasn't been edited too thoroughly because I was just too damn excited to publish it. So I'll fix it up a bit later, as will I the previous chapters.


	5. her soul

           Hogwarts was a castle, and the land surrounding it, a resplendent marsh that petered out into windswept grasslands, glossy green lakes and dark, foreboding woods. The air was fresh and sparked with energy, the wildlife both sentient, magical, and mischievous — and the skies more often than not threatening to break open with sudden and brisk downpour before quickly clearing up again, clouds drifting sluggishly about the horizon, temptingly, with yet another shower.

Evans quite liked it, and though she made no mention of it, Albus seemed to pick up on it as though her thoughts had taken to the same wind the nymphs let their humming murmurs carry on. Hogwarts — “We’re in the Scottish Highlands, dear girl, though I’m never quite sure _where_ exactly…” — was both unearthly and familiar. One moment, she swore the rest of the world was as far away as it could possibly, or even impossibly, be; and the next moment, she felt so overwhelmingly at home, the rolling hills and crisp air reviving memories of her far-off childhood in Godric’s Hollow.

“That there,” pointed Albus, one hand pressed lightly to her shoulder (which she attempted and failed to ignore, again and again) and the other raised in the direction of the skyline, and the ever-growing shadow of the castle directly beyond it, “is where I will show you exactly what fate lingers about you.” His expression grew weary. “Your fate, dear girl, takes the form of manacles; they hang over you like the glinting blade of a guillotine, deadly in both intent and promise.”

Unable to resist the action, she grasped her throat, feeling for the cold, biting metal she knew would not be there.

“We make our own fate,” said Evans, fighting the grimace on her face. He glanced back her. She could not read his eyes, and felt the stirrings of unease ripple through her. When had she become so complacent with being whisked away by strangers?

“Indeed,” he agreed, strangely, “but yours, Chosen One, is a fate that’s more than just your own choice.”

The casual drop of her title struck her quiet, frost-laced curiosity evaporating into a flood of unease. Evans kept a few feet of distance between them, following in his murky, muddied footsteps as marsh turned to flattened grass, and the faint ghostings of wild nymphs turned to the flitting, buzzing wings of pixies.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Albus, stopping to take in the view. She let her gaze trail after his, taking in the wide expanse of sky. The clouds roiled and crackled with the distant roar of thunder, lightning snaking between them like thin, incandescent bridges. A dark shadow dove behind a thick cloud, vanishing from sight as quickly as it had appeared.

“Did you see that?” she said before she could bite her tongue, a childish glee rising in her chest like spring buds peeking out the snow, small but determined. “It looked like something big — there it is again!” Her tinkling laugh was carried on the wind, drowned out not by the roar of thunder, but the echoing cry of a dragon. Evans spun on her heel, eyes lighting up, a mirror of the flashing sky.

Albus laughed, sprinting after her, as rain pelted down on them in biting sheets of icy water. The dragon beat its wings, distant but reverberating, and the clouds parted once more, revealing the warm rays of the midday sun. Evans tumbled into a roll across the soft grass, giggling and snorting. Albus followed after her, his laugh a bright, resonating sound that struck too high, too light. Evans’ eyes shot open, and she stared wide eyed at the guileless look he shot her out of his youthful visage.

“These are the Fields of Youth!” he shouted, sprinting off, laughing between puffs of air. “Catch me if you can!”

“Wait!” she called after him, her own voice shrill in her ears. Evans began to chase after him, his brilliant violet robes fluttering in the wind as she stumbled after him. She could not find it in herself to be mad; there was no anger settled deep in her bones, no stalking fear that lay behind locked doors. There was only joy and happiness and the rush of adventure.

She was home.

When the stars splayed out across the sky like a slowly unraveled, embroidered blanket of the deepest blue, with pinpricks of twinkling white lights like gems stitched to its threads, Evans let her head rest against the ground. All her remaining energy puttered out into a calm, satisfied tranquility, the giddiness of her youth seeping into the earth like a summer’s rain.

“I know that one,” she said, pointing to a line of three stars. “That’s Orion’s Belt. And if you follow it,” her finger traced the sky, “you can make out the Hunter.”

“Do you know the story behind it?” asked Albus, staring at her hand and then past it to the stars beyond. Evans glanced at him, before looking back to the sky.

“No,” she said.

“Would you like to know it?”

She paused. “Yeah. I would.”

“As a boy, Orion was praised for hunting skills. As he grew into a man, he boasted his skill to capture any animal and slay any beast. But far from here, in another sky, there is the constellation Scorpius. It is said that Orion could not see past his own ego and to the small but deadly scorpion. It struck him from behind with its tail, barbed with venom, and killed him.”

“I thought his death was an accident,” said Evans. “I remember… I think it was my mother who told me his love accidentally shot him with an arrow, and out of sorrow laid him to rest with the stars.” The memory was a strange one, warped by time and her own grieving. Her mother had been close to her end at that time, and often devolved into muttering nonsense. But Evans recalled hearing that story with a startling clarity, and the wish her mother had whisper after…

> _“I wish…” she trailed off, unaware that Harri was soaking up every word that fell from her mouth. “That James would let me rest with the stars, too.”_
> 
> _“Mum?”_
> 
> _“Hmm?” said her mother, gently brushing her hand over Harri’s head, smoothing down her hair. “What is it, love?”_
> 
> _“Do you like the stars above the garden?”_
> 
> _“I do, dear. I do.”_

“There’s always more than one story to a tale,” said Albus, regaining her attention. “See,” he said, gesturing to the sky, a little higher than the Hunter. “That, there, is Cassiopeia. She was a queen, beguiled by her own beauty. The sea nymphs were enraged when she declared herself more beautiful than they. The king sought to rectify her mistake, but the only way to do so was to sacrifice their daughter.”

There was a dull ache in her chest, throbbing and pounding and begging to be let out.

“Andromeda,” said Evans. “The Chained Maiden.”

“Indeed. But —”

“There’s no other interpretation of this tale,” she interrupted.

“That may be so,” he continued, “but I like to wonder: was the mistake of her mother, the abandonment of her father, and her imprisonment each a necessary evil to reach the greater good?”

“ _What_ greater good?” shouted Evans. “That I was bought like some branded beast for a Dark Lord to _tame?_ Well? Was my mother loving my father a mistake? Was her death, her leaving me to live with her relatives?” Her eyes were burning, watering, glaring at him. “Was birthing me, a bloody toy of fate?”

“Harri,” consoled Albus, but she was having none of it. The man had gone too far. The world had gone too far.

“What did I do to deserve this? Why did he leave us, why did he choose _him_ over me, my mother? Why couldn’t she… Why couldn’t she have been _stronger…”_

“It’s alright, dear girl,” he soothed, drawing her into a hug. Evans sniffled against the front of his robes, holding back the tears. “Let it out. Go on, there’s no need to keep it hidden here. You can be a child, once more.”

She began to cry, the tears rolling her cheeks. She began to sob, screaming for her Mum.

“You had to be strong in her place,” he continued knowingly. “You had to take care of her, and you even gave her body the burial she would have wanted. Floating in a sea of stars… The pond in your garden reflected them so clearly, didn’t it?”

“It did,” she nodded into his robes, shaking. “I thought — I thought she would’ve — would’ve wanted it. So I… _I touched her corpse._ I drug it out into the garden, and, and… waded out into the pond…”

“You were strong, Harri,” said Albus. “But you don’t need to be anymore. Let it go, Harri. Let her go. You needn’t hold onto her any longer.”

“B- _But…”_

“It’s alright now,” he said, smoothing her hair so gently, so familiarly.

Harri cried.

* * *

           Though she was reluctant to let go of a name she had clung to for so long, there was a certain freedom about doing so. She was, if not Evans, Harri. And though Harri still carried a bitter taste with it, it was _her,_ unlike Evans — who had been clinging to the memory of her mother.

And Harri, the protector of the home, never did have a power to wield. She was strong, strong for her family, her mother, her home; but _Harri —_ she had a power, and a duty to _wield it._ This power, _her_ power, it would be her own, and she would make it so.

So Harri followed Albus to the shore of the Great Lake, the morning sunlight glistening across the surface. He took her hand, she steeled her resolve, and together they walked across the gently rippling water as the stone staircase drew ever nearer.

Hogwarts castle was a dreamlike sight, and though Harri tried to put words to it, she failed to reconstruct the ineffable beauty that was Hogwarts’ core: the castle, its ancient stone slabs humming with magic, its spires and towers and reflecting windows, and the undeniable sensation of _home_ it emanated just as flowers burst with tantalizing aromas, or potions emitted plumes of dizzying, warm and sedating vapors.

Albus guided her up the numerous stone steps, deftly avoiding the splotches of slippery moss and mud, the cracks not budging beneath their feet. Beyond the steps was a short trek around winding cliffs and through the thick of a forest, which all seemed to fade into the distance as they reached a large and imposing set of doors.

“Here we are,” he said, finding no need for a key as he brushed his hand over the handles, opening the great doors with merely any effort. Past him, Harri could make out her first sight of the castle’s insides: golden light spilling down from an impossibly high ceiling, stairs that wound around one another as they reached ever higher, and candles amongst candles amongst an even larger number of burning, dripping, softly glowing flame-tipped sticks of wax.

“Beautiful, is it not?” asked Albus. Then, ushering her in, he whispered beneath the echo of the doors falling shut: “Welcome home.”

“It’s… breathtaking,” she said, spinning around. “I’m not even sure where to start.”

“Well!” he said. “If you want somewhere to begin, I suggest the Great Hall. It’s my favorite, just after my own office.”

“Office?” repeated Harri. “What do you need an office for?”

“Why, all sorts of things! From sitting in to keeping my belongings scattered throughout.” He stopped before a second set of doors, just as grand and enormous as the last, if a bit more opulent. “Just beyond these doors is the Great Hall. Go on,” he gestured. “See for yourself.”

Glancing one last time at Albus’ expectant but patient face, Harri reached for the doors. She pushed, expecting more resistance than she received. They opened easily beneath her efforts, and in a burst of flickering light, the Great Hall was revealed.

The candles were no longer torches lined along walls, though numerous they remained, floating high in the air like stars dotting the clear view of the sky splayed out above her. There were four banquet tables, empty and unused, but not unmaintained.

“Does no one else know about this place?” she asked, taking a step forward, entranced with the sight.

“Very few do, but not as it is, or even was.” Harri turned to him, and he smiled, slight and sad. “Hogwarts was once a school for magic, many years ago. I’ve heard that it was glorious, and that witches and wizards were free to be themselves without fear of danger. Hogwarts is the safest place on Earth.”

“I have no doubt,” she said. Perhaps the utter sensation of home she felt from it was manufactured, a spell set about the place to ensure that sense of comfort and safety. It did not matter if it was, because it was _true:_ Hogwarts was safe, and more a home to her than any other place had been in a long time. But… “You’ve heard?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Albus. “I wasn’t there to experience it. It was much longer ago than you are quite imagining, I assume. But that is not why I’ve brought you here.”

Harri looked away, seeking out the false sky. “My fate,” she murmured.

“Yes,” he returned. “Your fate.”

“Let’s see it, then,” she allowed, eyes falling shut. The sky disappeared into a sea of black.

* * *

           “I thought we were going to talk about my fate, or whatever it is you’ve deemed important enough to drag me here for,” said Harri, staring suspiciously down at the bowl of glistening, viscous salve. Albus patted a chair with a laugh as she grumbled and took a seat. Odd man, odder circumstances.

“I rather think I did not ‘drag’ you here as you so put it,” he said, dipping his fingers in the bowl, lathering them with globules of the mixture. “You quite enjoyed taking a look around the castle. But, ah, I did notice your hand earlier.”

“When?” she asked, holding out her hand at his request. He took it gently in his.

“During our impromptu stargazing. I saw the burns,” he explained, lathering the scabs and blisters with the ointment. It was feather-light and cool to the touch, soothing the ever-present burn that shot down her nerves. It soaked into her skin, disappearing from sight. Harri looked up from her curious watching to see him smiling, gesturing for her left hand. “And I also noticed your ring,” he said, taking her palm in his, carefully avoiding said ring.

“It’s not mine,” she said quickly, nearly taking her hand back. Albus hummed as he began to apply the salve. “Really,” Harri muttered. “It’s… I didn’t even get to choose.”

“Your fate is like that, I’m afraid,” he told her.

“This, too, is a part of my fate?” she grimaced.

“Of course,” he said, finishing up. “I don’t put much stock in things like coincidences or accidents. You were meant to bear this ring.”

“But I… I don’t _want_ to. Not then, not… not now.”

Albus was still holding her hand, finger coming close to brushing the ring. He was silent for some time, before asking, “Would you be amenable to baring it _later_ then, perhaps?”

“Later?” she murmured. “I don’t… I wouldn’t want to, no, but this is my burden to bear, isn’t it?” And unspoken: _like my power, this I must, too, bear._

“It is,” conceded Albus, “but is not yours _alone._ Would you mind if I…?” he trailed off, sending a meaningful glance at her hand, the finger bearing the ring, then back to her eyes, awaiting permission. Harri nodded, because if she could be free of it — of Voldemort — for even a moment, she would let him take it. The chains that bound her to that man were far from tangible items — but were carried by them, nonetheless: in appearance, intent, significance.

His fingers brushed the stone on the ring, but nothing happened. No burst of rage, no sudden, heart-stopping moment where the Dark Lord appeared from the shadows of the room before descending on her. No, Albus gently pried the ring from her finger, the band slipping off easily with his careful, winding motions. He held it up to the light, the gold reflecting it sparks and shimmers, the black gem consuming it all and giving nothing in return. It was an endless void.

“Interesting,” he said, turning it over. Slipping the ring onto his pinky, Albus and Harri waited with bated breath for something, anything, to occur; but nothing did, and so they put the ring out of their minds — or Harri did, at the very least, as Albus slipped it off and into his shirt pocket — before returning to seemingly normal conversation not haunted by the taint of a distant Dark Lord.

“You must be tired,” said Albus, guiding her by the shoulder. Harri found she did not mind it when he did so, unlike so many other times she found herself shying away from touch, frenzied by an inexplicable panic. She felt comfortable around him — _comforted_ by him — and did not mind a little physical contact. In fact, it almost felt like she had missed it.

“Mm,” she hummed, shoulders drooping. “Where will I sleep? Assuming you’re letting me stay here. You are, aren’t you?”

“Of course. Where else would you sleep? Out under tempestuous skies? No, you’ll stay here: there is a tower I think you would like, but rest will come later. First, you must clean up and eat something; you must be starved.”

“No,” said Harri, shaking her head. “I can’t. I’m too tired. Tomorrow I can. But tonight… I’ll likely fall asleep in the bath first.”

“I insist. You’ll feel better for it. And it’s much healthier.”

“If you’re so stubborn,” she muttered, scrubbing her face as she yawned. “I’m not up for arguing at the moment. Show me where this bathroom is so I can get this over with, then.”

But it was no bathroom he took her to: it was more a bath _house_ , with toilet stalls lining one wall, and a ginormous bath sunk into the floor that took up the entirety of one portion of the room. It was filled past the brim with steaming, glistening water, a thick layer of bubbles frothed over the surface. A stained-glass mermaid combed her hair to a softly hummed tune, looking up once to smile at her and flick her tail.

Albus coughed behind his fist. “I thought you might enjoy a bubble bath, as I most certainly do after a troublesome day. Did I presume wrongly?”

“S’okay,” she told him. “I like it. Thanks.”

“It was no problem of mine,” he said. “You’re welcome. And do find me in the Great Hall afterwards for — well, our time is rather skewed at the moment, so this will be your dinner, I suspect.” Harri shrugged, casting her gaze out over the bath. “I won’t keep you any longer. Do be careful not fall asleep in the water,” he warned in farewell.

Alone with the rather preoccupied mermaid comprised of glass and magic and maybe even a little crystal, Harri swiftly stripped and dipped a toe into the water. It was lukewarm, but as she sunk beneath the frothy surface, she discovered it was quite hot, but comfortably so. The steam quickly beaded across her face in a sticky fan of warm air, and she ducked below the waters, washing it away with the grime that lathered her face and hair.

By the mirrors she discovered a luxuriously soft towel and comb that looked strikingly like the one depicted with the mermaid: plated with seashell nacre and silver, the teeth a pristine, pearly white. Harri started at the bottom of her tangled, matted red locks, the comb sliding easily through it no matter the size or tenacity of the knot, smoothing out and giving a pleasant sheen to her usually chaotic and unruly hair.

The hum of the mermaid lulled her into a drowsy repetition of the movements, dragging the comb through her hair even when it was no longer necessary. It was simply nice to feel it against her scalp, through her hair. Her reflection in the mirror smiled peacefully back.

Though she doubted she had been in the bath for very long, Harri left it feeling very clean, with her clothes fresh and her hair pinned in the best up-do she could manage with its short length. Stepping out into the hall, however, the sole of her foot pressed against something much like paper, but softer: a parchment letter had been left for her, addressed with her name in bright emerald ink:

> _Harri,_ read the note folded inside,
> 
> _I’m afraid I was a tad hasty in our plans. You are quite obviously tired, and by the time you will be reading this, I’m certain you will be even more so. Therefore, I have left your dinner in the tower where you shall be staying and have postponed our feast in the Great Hall for a later time._
> 
> _You see, I have been alone a great many years. Meeting you and speaking with you has rekindled my love for conversation with fellow humans, and in my excitement I planned to carry out all too many of these past years’ yearnings in one short, measly day. Now I realize that all of these plans can come to fruition in not one day or night, but in many: I wish to show you the beauty of dining in the Great Hall, exploring the halls and floors and secret chambers, and introduce you to a many of my friends. But your agreement is tantamount to these expenditures, and I hope to find as much willingness to explore this old castle as I hope to show it to you._
> 
> _I will cease these ramblings of an old man now so that you may get the rest you so desire, but not without these parting words:_
> 
> And scribbled rather messily at the bottom right corner of the page were the words, _“Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!”_ each in that order and capitalized accordingly.

Harri was uncertain of what to make of it, because while most of the letter made perfect sense to her (even his fervor to show her the wonders of Hogwarts, as the castle incited some sort of manic necessity to explore every corner and crevice of it) the last bit caught her off guard and more importantly, uneased her for a reason she could not quite place.

Nonetheless, she read it to the end, all the way down to his unnecessarily long signature — _Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore_ — and as the last line blurred beneath her weary eyes, the letter began to fold itself back up, taking the origami shape of an odd, emerald and black speckled butterfly.

It paused around corners and up staircases, waiting for her, guiding her. Eventually she arrived at a stark white portrait nearly the same size as her. The butterfly clung to it, nearly still save for the slow flutter of its wings. The portrait popped open. Behind it was a secret entrance leading to a large and round room warmed by burgundies and crimsons and sunset oranges. A fire was roaring in the fireplace, gnawing on wood and heating the hearth. Soft and plump couches lay scattered throughout the room, along with stray pillows and small tables lined with books and games.

Towards the center of the room, on a table larger than those spotted with light reading or unusual oddments, was a tray of steaming buns, mashed potatoes, and a large chunk of what could only be mutton. Harri gratefully sipped at the pumpkin juice, finding it more savory and rather more enjoyable than the food she received at the Dark Lord’s manor. Here, she could eat her fill and find comfort in it too.

There were multiple rooms up the double set of stairs, though only one was furnished fully with fresh bedding and gentle light. She deemed it her room for the time being, and ignored the dozen others she had found dusty and abandoned. The bed was luxurious, and the blankets a smooth velvet that swiftly drug her under into a deep and undisturbed sleep.

* * *

_She was digging her fingers into the ground, dragging herself forward, body weighing heavier as the seconds ticked by, sluggish and elongated by the sense of desperation permeating the air. It was so far, and she could not stretch any further — but there, a glimmer in the distance, swallowed quickly by its infinitely black surface —_

_There was a hand on her shoulder, her back, her calf. One was hers, of course, but it was none of the aforementioned; it was the pale fingers interlaced with hers over her chest, hiding her heart from the darkness, keeping the light from bursting out. She — the other her (but they were one now, were they not?) — whispered against her ear, low and harsh,_ “Wake up.”

* * *

           Harri gasped beneath the suffocating bunch of covers, quickly tossing them back and sitting up stiffly. Her heart raced in her chest, an unsteady staccato behind her ribs. Sweat matted her bangs to her forehead, which she swiped at, annoyed. She left her bed and with it, what small recollection she had of her dreams, left to fade beneath the faint drizzle of light revealed in the crack between the curtains.

“I see you found your way back,” noted Albus, who was waiting at the entrance to the Great Hall for her. A cup of tea bobbed in the air beside him, steam curling up from its golden surface.

“Did you I keep you from your meal?” she asked him, slipping into place beside him, a soft but gnawing anxiety curling in her gut.

“No, no,” he waved off. “I was rather admiring the sight. While truly, it never gets old, I wanted to re-imagine how seeing it for the first time must feel.”

“Incredible,” said Harri. “It feels incredible. Almost unbelievable, but not quite; and that’s what makes it so spectacular. It’s real.”

“Indeed so, my girl.” He sighed heavily. “Now, how does some mid-noon breakfast sound?”

The banquet spread out without warning or fanfare, simply appearing into space where it was not a mere moment before. First, flat dishes of polished silver splayed out, surface clean and reflective of the sky overhead, before food burst into existence in a splash of lurid colors and smells — creamy soups, succulent grapes and carved pomegranates, tender meats and blossoming greens of lettuce heads, peas and leafy mint dashed over plump, chocolate tipped puddings.

Harri was given her own goblet of pumpkin juice, and Albus continued to sip unhurried from his tea, which moved according to his whim without a flick of his finger or stray glance of his eye.

“What would you like to see first?” he asked, the glee bright and unrestrained on his face. “I know I offered many options, but if there is anything in particular you are curious about, I’ll be glad to show you it.”

“Anything is fine, really,” said Harri. “Hogwarts is amazing, no matter which part of it.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he replies honestly.

Harri kicks her feet under the table, reassured in that he cannot see her doing so. She feels bashful, but not nearly as hesitant as she normally would to voice her question: “Do you think… we could see your office first?”

“My office?” he repeated, and before she could begin to regret her words, he continued with, “I hadn’t expected any interest in my office, of all places. It’s rather like an old, dusty luggage one would find in their grandparents attic — full of oddments and memorabilia, dull assortments compared to the wonders of Hogwarts; but perhaps therein that lies its intrigue: the untold stories, the mystique of used and loved possessions.”

“We don’t have to go there first,” Harri insisted, rather embarrassed. “I’m sure you want to go somewhere exciting, and not someplace you visit all too often.”

“It’s no trouble of mine at all, my dear,” Albus told her, shaking his head with a smaller but far warmer smile. “I’d like to see it with new eyes myself.”

Brunch was finished without a rush. Harri was content to eat her fill without any sense of urgency, and Albus cleaned off his pickings with an even slower, meticulous hand. The journey to his office was just as incredible as the destination — the staircases swapped and swung with a mind of their own, and the hallways (though rather unfurnished in places) each dazzled with their own character, from full-bodied suits of armor to rather old portraits, worn with age yet more than happy to spark a conversation.

The entrance to the office was one winding set of steps that curved and dipped beneath a low ceiling. A door at the end swung open before they could reach it, revealing a large and apparently circular room — another tower, she suspected — filled to the brim with mahogany furnishings and rather odd, though friendly, paintings; silver and copper novelties lining the desks and shelves, some chiming rhythmically while others ticked or clicked or whirred, and little hints at bigger stories lay scattered about comfortably.

“I can see the intrigue,” noted Albus, giving his own office a look around. His robes swished, the soft sound drowned out by the quiet hubbub of his trinkets. Harri poked an odd, swaying hand, rather like a clock’s, but it was attached to nothing beyond a puny, pewter box, for no reason she could discern. Passing it by, she found herself staring listlessly at a bird perch, much like the one she recalled seeing before she was swept away in a whirlwind of fire and confusion.

An ember spat out of the air, quickly consuming the space above the perch. The bird from before cocked its head at her, beady eyes black and glistening, bright with a startling amount of awareness.

“This is my dear friend Fawkes,” Albus introduced, coming up behind her to approach the bird, stroking its bright red plumage. “He’s a phoenix — one of the last of his kind. It is a dark age indeed when their numbers dwindle so low,” he murmured, low and regretful. Fawkes gave a mournful cry. His voice was neither low or particularly high, but a crooning, sonorous tone that sunk deeper than her thoughts, than her very heart — it reached a forgotten area of her soul, stroking it with the same care Albus smoothed his brilliant feathers.

He was like fire — all gorgeous, tantalizing reds and oranges and yellows, each color consuming one another in an endless cycle of burning and breathing, one into the other, recycle and repeat. The fire in her chest simmered and rose, smoldering with a foreign longing.

“His burning day nears. Come now,” said Albus, one hand guiding her by the shoulder. Harri reluctantly tore her eyes from Fawkes, and followed his lead to the door. “You did want to see those secret passages, did you not?” he offered temptingly. Shaking off the last vestiges of whatever had come over her, Harri nodded with a growing hunger for adventure.

They ducked into alcoves, slipped behind cracks in stone walls and down ancient, cobwebbed steps, each and every revealing a secret of its own: shortcuts that connected areas far and wide, impossible distances cut to a mere descent or corner-cut; windows that looked out upon the surrounding lands, so far below but beatific. Afternoon bled into evening, the russet sunset splayed across the walls and floors in a bath of red light.

Then night swept across the castle, snuffing out all light save the flickering sputters of torches and candles. Harri was nowhere near tired, and rather easily let Albus drag her across Hogwarts for one more escapade.

“This is one of my favorite spots,” he confided, opening a door to let in the shadows of darkness. They were ensconced in pitch black tides of brisk, misty air, as glittering stars and galaxies and nebulae slowly became unveiled. “The Astronomy Tower,” murmured Albus, his robes trailing in their own twinkling wake, the shimmer of the fabric catching the starlight.

Harri carefully approached the edge, wary of the steep drop. The tower was quite high, and the ground so very far down, and in the encompassing darkness, it gave the impression of peering down into the void. The slant of the stone wall dipped further and further into the darkness, before disappearing entirely, and Harri found herself leaning over the edge with her knuckles pale white as stared and stared.

“Careful now,” Albus advised, gently steadying her and pulling her back. “Wouldn’t want to end your visit so soon, now would you?” he joked lightly.

“Right,” said Harri. “Uh, thank you for taking me up here. The view is spectacular.”

“It is, isn’t it?” he replied.

The sight truly was incredible, somehow even clearer than the view from the fields where they had stargazed; yet Harri found herself unwilling to let it entrance her, or perhaps unable — the deep and unsettling mark left by the grip of darkness, ever so slowly pulling her over the edge of the tower, kept her head clear and mouth dry.

“Yeah,” she returned, voice a mere echo amid the night. “But… this isn’t why you’ve brought me here, is it? To Hogwarts.”

Albus continued to stare up at the sky, his smile slowly falling into a tired and solemn, thinly pressed line. “No,” he agreed. “It’s not.”

“Then —”

“But can we not enjoy it while it lasts?” he continued, turning his stare on her, his eyes bright and twinkling like the stars overhead, his pupils vast and as bottomless as the void beneath their feet. “Why rush what shall come, no matter the hour, no matter the day?”

“You’re —” Harri struggled, brow furrowing beneath the weight of her thoughts, her doubts— “You’re stalling, and I don’t know why,” she admitted. “You may be lonely, you may wish to show me all these wonderful things, but… you’re _avoiding_ something, that very something you believe _fated_ to happen. Why?”

A heavy sigh, heavier than all her worries and fears and thoughts combined, fell from his lips. “I don’t want to face my own mistakes,” he said, “and I don’t wish to make another. You are no doubt right, though, Harri; and if I may be so selfish to ask, would you mind terribly if we waited one more sunrise?”

Staring past Albus and his disconcertingly familiar eyes (never quite as cold, but like _ice,_ they were so very _blue_ but _bright_ all at once) she gazed at the horizon and what had yet to rise beyond it, illuminating the land in a wash of pale light and dispersing the veil of stars.

“‘Til dawn breaks,” she conceded, sitting down for the wait.

* * *

           The basin was carved from what appeared to be heavy, grey stone, but Albus carried it toward a small alcove with a high, slightly cracked open window rather effortlessly. He laid it upon a tall, thin-legged stool, the symbols carved along its rim catching the light but still no more decipherable than they had been beneath the shadows of Albus’ office.

From a cluttered shelf overflowing with dangling rolls of parchment and the odd feather or ink-pot scattered about it, he unlocked its sole cupboard with a tiny, rust-colored key. It was lined from front to back in a chaotic (though labelled) assortment of crystal vials, phials, and bottles. Each swarmed with a twisting, fluid-like vapor contained within them, and picking through the multitude of options, Albus withdrew a single vial, held at the neck by his pinched thumb and index finger.

The label read simply as _“Tom”_ and no more. Harri felt her heart shudder and quake with some unplaceable, ineffable emotion that vanished as quick as it sparked.

“Hold strong, Harri,” Albus said, squeezing her shoulder encouragingly with his free hand. With a constricted, swallowed exhale, she nodded. “Good,” he said, then: “We may start with a different one, if you prefer.” The vial swished, contents swirling in a murky tide.

“No,” said Harri. “I’d like for this to be done.” She clutched her coat hem in a tight bundle. “Done, and over with.”

“Done, we may be, with this — but this shall not be the end.” Albus uncorked the vial, which did not emit any sort of vapor as she suspected it might, and tipped it over the basin. The contents flowed out as fog rolled over hills, tumbling down and into the bowl with the viscosity of water but the consistency of air. “Are you ready?” he asked.

And before she could say “no” or “a moment, please” Harri uttered a quick and unsure, “Yes,” before taking his outstretched hand. He led her up to the edge of the bowl, demonstrating how to operate the strange, no doubt magical item.

“This is a pensieve,” he explained, gripping the rim in a light grasp. “You dip your head into the waters and the magic shall do the rest.”

Rather anxiously, she placed her hands on the edge, flinching when the contents touched the tips of her fingers. She bent over the bowl, no reflection mirrored to stare back, and dipped her head just beneath the surface. It was neither uncomfortable or unsettling, but unusual. The contents swished and settled, soft and wispy, before Harri felt herself being drawn in and in, deeper and deeper, until she stood on the tips of her toes and then no more.

She tumbled into the hazy mists of memory.

_It was a cold December night as Albus wandered the snow laden fields of Hogwarts, an endless expanse of white that glowed grey in the darkness. His footsteps were the soft and muffled crunches of snow, and his breath a warm, visible plume before his face. Restlessness had drawn him from his office and out into the winter-bitter night, guiding his feet, directionless, to an end not in sight._

_He did not mind._

_Then, an unexpected speckle of black dotted the grey: it was huddled in on itself, a mere shadow amongst the nothingness of the dead season. Albus approached it with wariness and care, kneeling before the crouched and curled up figure. A head of jet-black, wind tousled hair looked up, wide, fathomless dark eyes seeking out all the answers they could wrench from Albus’ own gaze. He abruptly closed off his mind from the boy, who startled back, glaring at him with distrust as cold as that late December night._

_“Hello,” he said to the boy. “My name is Albus Dumbledore. And who might you be?”_

_The boy spread his lips and gave a long, sharp hiss._

Harri stumbled forward, surroundings shifting around and beneath her, the scene morphing from its bitter, eerie cold to the buzzing, cloying warmth of summer. She gasped and twisted, chasing the phantom image of a boy in the snow, Albus kneeling before him with a hand outstretched —

_The boy trailed after Albus, limbs long and gaunt and face all too pale for the warm season. He glowered and stared at everything he passed with the same unfaltering intensity, footsteps sharp and precise to Albus’ leisurely stroll. His shoulders, piercing through the thin fabric of his shirt, were uncharacteristically stiff for a child._

_“Tom,” called Albus, noting that the boy had stopped. Tom looked up, all cherubic features and high, shadowed cheeks that were neither flushed or creased with smile. He stared ahead with a blank expression, but his eyes remained striking — a tumultuous, storm-black sky._

_“Yes?” he replied, the word slow and enunciated. Though he was swift to take up English, there remained a sibilant strain to his syllables which he abhorred with a passion — it was the mark of his failure, and Tom prided himself (all too passionately) on never failing anything he set his mind to._

_“Have you had any more accidents lately?”_

_Rather like crumbling embers, Tom’s eyes darkened. “No,” he responded, low._

_“No fires?” said Albus._

_“No accidents,” Tom nodded, not quite agreeing but hiding beneath the appearance of doing so._

_“And how are you liking your room? The dungeons are always rather chilly. The dampness persists in spite of the weather, even on a day as warm as this. Are you not lonely down there, all by yourself?”_

_“No,” was Tom’s slow response. Then, rather begrudgingly, “I like looking at the lake. The sunlight sinks beneath the waters and fills the chambers with swimming green light.”_

_“That does sound nice,” Albus appraised, smiling slightly. “I’ll have to come down and see it myself, sometime. And maybe see what you’ve done with your room?”_

_At his sides, Tom’s hands clenched and unclenched. “I will…” He opened and closed his mouth, becoming frustrated when the words did not bend to his will. “I will need to clean my room, first,” he finally managed, a barely apparent hiss underlying his voice._

_“Of course,” said Albus, smile strained, more a grimace in the heady, wavering summer air._

The scene fluctuated and dispersed. Harri grasped at the wisps of swirling, rapidly reforming memory. The image of the boy faded, replaced by a ganglier, darker version of himself — but he was smiling, rather like a marble sculpture, too perfect and too pristine.

It was — It was — It was _wrong —_

The tips of Harri’s fingers brushed his cheek, sliding off it like oil on water —

_Tom was crouched in the tall grass, an autumn shadow curled around a squirming, shrieking pixie._

_“Tom,” admonished Albus, grasping his shoulder. “What are you doing?”_

_His dark, dark gaze remained fixated on the creature writhing in his grip. It was splattered with pale blood, teeth latched uselessly onto Tom’s finger as tears streamed down its face. One of its wings lay in on the dirt, shredded at the base from a rough tear._

_He finally looked up. His expression revealed nothing, but his eyes sparked with a predatory gleam. “I found it like this,” he lied, and Albus —_

And Harri —

Clutching her chest and heaving heavy, gasping breaths, she crumpled to the floor of this strange, undecided memory world. Something was clawing to get out, something _enraged_ and _hurt_ and her thoughts rebelled against her, repeating that same, damning compassion she had so distantly, so momentarily felt but _denied:_

 _He’s just a child, isn’t he? How can Albus treat him so coldly, when he was just hurting inside? She had done worse. She had done worse._ She had done worse.

The world fell away.

_It was a day rather like the one Albus had found Tom. He had prepared a special breakfast despite his conflictions, but the boy never showed. For the whole of the day, he remained sequestered in the dungeons, up to what could only be no good —_

— that was not true —!

_— and Albus, even with his worries, left him to it. Yet when he showed the next day, not a hair out of place, his expression so carefully concealed, he could not help but ask:_

_“What were you doing out in the snow that day, when I found you?”_

_And the reaction was unlike anything he had come to expect from the boy, but more of what he had grown to suspect: his eyes flashed with ill-concealed anger, the air in the room sparked with energy, and the banquet table cloth caught fire as glass shattered._

_“It doesn’t matter now, does it?”_

_The doors were thrown open by a gust howling wind, and Tom turned and dashed out into the winter storm. Albus called after him, racing to the entrance, but beyond the castle was only the sheer white wall of snow falling in furious, twisting flurries._

_“Tom!” he shouted, but the sound was lost on the wind. The boy, even with his magic, would not last very long out there; and so Albus braved the storm, one hand held aloft as he summoned a ball of brilliant light to guide his way, and hopefully, guide Tom back to him. But there was no speck of black on the white, which slowly faded to grey, and Albus continued to shout into the dark:_

_“Tom!”_

Harri gasped as a grip on her collar pulled her back and out of the memory. She clawed to return to it — _Tom? What happened to Tom?_ — but Albus held her firmly.

“That is enough for tonight, I think,” he said, guiding her from the room, her head turning to face the pensieve as she reluctantly left.

“What —? What happened to him? Did he make it out of the storm? Did you find him, or was it —?” _too late?_

“He lived, I assure you. And you will learn the rest of what happened tomorrow, surely, after you have eaten and taken care of your own health, first and foremost.”

“Right,” said Harri, an echo amongst the castle walls. “Right.”

At dinner that evening, the cutlery scraped and clattered against the dishware amid a tense and uneasy silence. Harri cast furtive glances at Albus, who ate without the same weight that brought her shoulders down and bent her head. Her thoughts roiled and clambered atop one another.

“Why —” she hesitated “— Why did you… treat him so badly?”

“Pardon?” he said, looking up from his plate with a surprised expression. Almost as if he had not realized the depth, the distance, of his own memories, of his own relationship with Tom.

“Tom…” she murmured, and the name fell familiarly from her tongue, like the name of a phantasm spilling from her mouth at the wake of a hazy, forgotten dream. “You were so wary of him. Suspicious. You were never like that to me, I don’t think, even though we’ve only just met.”

“You had seen it, surely? Think back, now, to your first impression of him: he was a guarded boy, certainly, but there was something else in his eyes — something very much like a darkness kept at bay.”

“Everyone has their own darkness,” Harri argued, feeling a mite of compassioned anger well up in her for the slight against a boy who was not even here to defend himself. “Who are you to measure his worth?”

“You see yourself in him,” Albus noted, to which she stilled. “And there is no fault in that, Harri. But Tom… he was a troubled boy. He had so much power and knew not of how to control it or himself. He was dangerous, and though I tried to show him how to do good with his gift —”

“He didn’t.” Setting down her silverware, Harri grasped the ends of the table to steady herself. Albus was watching her, measuring her, and she wondered how Tom felt beneath the weight of his stare, knowing no other beyond judgement. “He… hurt that pixie, and he lied, and he was cold when you wanted _warm._ ”

_“She’s strange, that girl — she never smiles, and she never laughs, and I hear she’s a delinquent. I don’t want my kids going near her, not if even her own aunt can’t stand the sight of her.”_

“I think — I think I’ll excuse myself,” she said, rising. Her plates vanished, and Albus may have said something or another, but she was out the Great Hall and racing (nearly as fast as her heart) to her room, scarlet and bright and too _warm —_

Her steps stuttered, stopped, and she turned — there was another hallway, a passage, a route she knew but was unsure of… but —

_“I like looking at the lake. The sunlight sinks beneath the waters and fills the chambers with swimming green light.”_

As she descended lower into the castle, its appearance slowly morphed into that of the dungeons: the light escaping into the halls through the windows waned and vanished, the torches sputtered and cast long, dreary shadows across the walls, and the temperature dropped as mist built along the stones, damp and cool.

The hallway felt endless, twisting and turning and repeating. It looked and felt an awful lot like Nurmengard, and shuddering, Harri curled in on herself to hide both from the cold and her memories. A flicker of light unlike the glow of the torches danced out of the corner of her eye, and she stopped, peering curiously at the fleck of flickering green.

It was coming through a crack in the wall, and when she placed her hand to it, it unfurled, stone slabs sliding out of place to reveal an entrance, and beyond it, a room not unlike her own in the tower. Abandoned games of chess, couches plump and inviting, and a large, ceiling to floor window.

Algae licked at the bottom of the window, soft, long and thin-leaved plants swaying in the gentle currents of water. She could barely see more than a meter past the glass, the water impenetrably dark, but every so often she caught glimpses of fish swimming just out of view, odd magical creatures she had never seen before, and the light —

It shone through the window — unhindered by the thick pane of glass — as a gleam of emerald, but fainter, like a gem held to the light and peered up upon, speckles of light dispersed and glittering in slight, sharp, alternating beams. It was a kaleidoscope of color, and Harri thought she might be able to stare at it forever, at the way it splayed across the dungeon floor, spilled through the window, or painted the seats in varying shades of darker green.

But exhaustion pulled her from her reverie, and she sought out a distant curiosity: there was only one room furnished, much like her tower, and it was almost as bare as the rest, save for its pristinely made bed and nearly filled bookshelf. A wardrobe was pushed against one corner, and despite feeling as though she was prying, Harri opened it.

It was empty, but when she blinked, there was the phantom image of a small, worn box that faded as quick as it came. An unsettled, gnawing pain blossomed behind her eyes, and rather too tired to return to the couch, she sat on the bed. Dust rose up, disturbed by her presence. Harri shook out the covers and laid down. It felt like her own bed, but different, somehow. Lonelier, perhaps.

She slipped into sleep.

* * *

           Harri woke to a bone-deep comfort. There was no simmering unease from dreams that lingered in ebbing waves of desperation and disappointment; there was only her, her measured, even breaths, and the soft, bottle-green light that filtered across the sheets in shimmering streams. The velvet was warm, heavy, and conformed around her body in a downy hug. The room was neither too bright or too dark, but it felt as though the shadows clung to her — growing, twisting, twining around the bed in arching mosaics that spanned floor to wall to ceiling.

She was comfortable; at ease.

There was a ring on her third finger, gold and black and full of promise.

And as best she tried to remove it, it would not come off — the band clung to her skin like metal branded to the flesh, tugging and stretching painfully, never relinquishing its hold on her, her skin, her very being. It blistered and bruised, a flush of reddening irritation blossoming around it. Goosebumps rose up her arms in a cold wash of fear.

She was trapped, no matter where she went, no matter what she did —

And yet —

Why did it feel like coming home?

Harri tore through the dresser, rifling through drawers and the outgrown clothes of a boy long gone. She finally found what she was looking for — a pair of gloves, too big for a child and too small for a young man — before she tugged the leather over the ring. Her hands shook as she fumbled to put on the opposite glove.

There was no point to this. Albus would notice it missing, surely; unless this was some post-waking nightmare. She desperately wanted to believe it was, but there was no doubting the reality of her situation, of the weight resting upon her finger.

She sat on the edge of the bed, bent over her clasped, gloved hands. Her eyes were screwed shut even as she hooked a finger under the black leather, pulling, tugging, finding it infinitely easier to remove than the ring.

Harri wondered how she should feel, and if the feelings she recognized swimming just beneath the surface were really hers, as honeyed and satisfied as they were.

* * *

           “Albus,” said Harri, her voice a mere rasp above the chink of silverware. He hummed in acknowledgement. “Why is the castle dressed for more company than one? Did you know I was coming here, or did you lie about being alone?”

He looked up from his plate half full of breakfast and half colored with lurid, sharply sweet-smelling candies. “You were always meant to come here, at some point or another; but no, I had not known exactly when. The tower you reside, or resided in,” he corrected, and Harri was unsurprised that her change of rooming had not escaped him, “was once known as the Gryffindor dorms. I… have been thinking on it for some time now, watching and waiting for the right circumstances, to re-open Hogwarts as a school.”

“Really?” she said, leaning forward in interest. “I suppose it makes sense, then, why only my room was furnished but the rest looked prepared to be so as well.”

“Yes,” said Albus. “It’s not quite time yet, but soon, I hope.” He took a long and pensive sip of tea. “I wonder what it will look like when the castle is bursting with life and laughter…”

“You’ve been waiting a long time, haven’t you?”

“Longer than you might realize,” he admitted. “Far too long.” A deeply somber sigh lingered over the silence, interspersed by the echoing shink of silver on silver, of thoughts too heavy, too stubborn to part with the tongue — of gold on flesh and a fate wrapped around and tangled up, like a thin but sharp coil of piano wire.

* * *

_The wind was screeching, tearing through the blizzard with a voracity stolen straight from Albus’ bones. He could not, for the life of him, magic back the warmth the storm sapped from him, though he could keep out the cold. Shivers trailed down his arms and to his hands, where they shook and shuddered, his guiding light flickering beneath his waning tenacity. There still was no head of black hair to be seen slipping through the thick sheets of snow._

_He had doubled back by then, the comforting glow of Hogwarts easily penetrating the night’s bitter air. As he passed over the threshold, doors creeping closed (perhaps, hoping that a miracle would occur, and Tom would come tumbling out of the blizzard), Albus gasped in the warm air even as it burned a streak of fire down his throat._

_Before he could tempt himself with the idea of a firewhiskey, a thunderous crash echoed throughout the halls, bouncing off walls and windows and very nearly drowning out the suddenly loud howling of wind. Albus swung around, taking in the sight of the doors swung open. A tall shadow mottled the wall of grey flurries; but rather than have a head of black, his was a shock of hair so brightly blonde that it almost registered as white, but Albus knew better —_

Harri knew better —

_It was dear friend, who stood tall and straight-backed, eyes a familiar, icy blue. His smile was small but fond. Albus would recognize him anywhere —_

Harri would recognize him anywhere, with the tense line of his shoulders and the avaricious gleam in his eye.

_It was Gellert, and leaning into his steadying hold was Tom, blue-lipped and awfully still. Albus worried, for a moment, that he was dead — but Gellert would not waste his efforts on a corpse._

_“Albus,” he greeted, hiking up Tom a little higher when he drooped in his hold. “Would you mind assisting me? It’s rather difficult to keep these stasis charms in effect and levitate someone. I’ve never been too talented at healing magic, I’m sure you recall…”_

The man in the memory was stepping forward, and Evans stepping back — but no, she was Harri, and this was Hogwarts, not Nurmengard or —

The mist dispersed and reformed, dragging her into a room with white in every direction, a single cot blotted with the dark of Tom’s curling hair, his attentive, obsidian eyes —

_“Consider it, Albus,” spoke Gellert, relaxed in his commandeered chair, a more than decent job of transfiguring gone into it to make it more comfortable and appealing to the eye. “He needs to experience more of the world, receive a wider range of education.”_

_Albus wanted to disagree. Wanted to find fault in his logic. But as much as he wanted company, wanted to keep an eye on Tom, the decision was made for him with Tom’s own exclamation:_

_“I want to go,” he said. “I’d like to see the different countries, and learn more about magic. I could meet more people, just as you want me to.”_

_“I suppose it will be good for you,” Albus reluctantly agreed. “And I trust you, Gellert.”_

The memory slowly slipped away, the mists unfurling and parting, falling away. Harri felt herself floating, rising up and above the waters, until her head was breaking the surface and staring down at a bank of drifting, white clouds, hands clasped and pressing into the grooves of the pensieve.

“You knew him,” she murmured. “You _know_ him.”

“I fear I no longer _know_ him,” admitted Albus. “He has gone beyond whatever expectations I had of him, for good or bad. He is no longer the Gellert I knew and loved.”

“You know _him,_ ” hissed Harri, stepping back from the pensieve, away from Albus. She could still see the phantom image of _Gellert_ smiling, relaxed, a mirror image of the man who _captured_ her like an animal, sold her like a rare _commodity._

“Harri,” Albus soothed, but she could only _seethe_ with the realizations falling into place. This man had let his beloved _Gellert_ get away with kidnapping and selling people, magical beings — and yet he felt no guilt? No shame in speaking to her as a _friend?_

The office shuddered. Vials began to rattle and clank against one another, and a whirring device exploded in a blast of bright, searing light.

Her chest was positively _burning_. It felt like a thousand thoughts and feelings were squirming, writhing behind her ribs. It was too much.

A soft trill rang out through the office. Fawkes had materialized at his post, wings extended in a fan of brilliant warm colors. Harri felt his song seep into her bones, bleed into the ache in her chest until she felt perfectly full and free. Everything was quiet beyond the comfort of his song.

The phoenix flapped his wings, embers spilling off in plumes of ephemeral starbursts. He took off from the post, circling the ceiling in a smooth glide, coming to rest as a grounding weight on Harri’s shoulder. He crooned and nudged his head into the crook of her neck, pleasantly warm and impossibly soft.

“Fawkes…” Harri murmured, stroking the plume atop his head as he trilled.

“I believe he wishes to give you a gift,” said Albus. Fawkes gave an almost affirmative trill, watching her with his intelligent, beady eyes. There was only kindness and warmth to be found in them, and Harri felt if she stared too long, she could lose herself in them.

The phoenix ruffled his wings, flapping in a burst of wind and feather-soft touches. Harri could not withhold the laughter it brought, but bit her lip soon after. Fawkes was seemingly unhappy with her restraint, and cocked his head, clambering up closer until he was practically hidden in the burning red of her hair.

His head dipped, staring at her with an unblinking focus. Harri met his stare with her own unyielding gaze. The connection was broke (both all too soon and an age later) when Fawkes ducked his head, preening his plumage with his beak. He snagged a feather and pulled, it easily coming loose. He proffered it before Harri in an utterly still, expectant position.

This was his gift: a feather, long and full and as red as her hair. It emanated warmth and joy, and Harri was nearly reluctant to accept it. But it called to her with the same, soft croon as Fawkes’ songs, and she found herself reaching for it, offering her open palm for him to drop it in, before she could question her own willingness.

When he dropped it into her waiting palm, it was as though something _clicked_ inside of her. The unsettled ache in her chest cleared up, revealing the familiar warmth of her soul: smouldering and so very _welcoming._

Then, quite suddenly, Fawkes burst into flames — but it was unlike his usual fire, and kept burning, his own cry a high shriek over the crackle of flames. Harri startled, holding the feather close to her chest as she watched, fixated on the sight before her. Had she done this? Had taking the feather been some taboo action? Harri sought out Albus’ answering gaze, and was not met with terror or confusion, but a kindly smile and a gentle nod towards the floor. There was only a pile of ash and embers; but no, there was something moving, writhing, parting the ashes to reveal a small, sooty head poking out the remains of the phoenix.

Harri crouched down, extending a hand tentatively. “Fawkes?” she questioned, earning a chirp from the baby phoenix who reached out to nip her finger. She laughed a startled, relieved noise before carefully picking him up, cradling him with just as much care, if not more, for the feather.

“Phoenix feathers were once used to craft wands,” explained Albus. “But with their declining population, the practice fell out of use. There are still wands in existence with phoenix feather cores, but they are few and in between despite their longevity, and bond to even fewer witches or wizards.”

“Thank you, Fawkes,” Harri said. “Though I’m not sure how I’ll craft my own wand, or if I even should…”

“It will act as a focus for your magic, helping you control it better, rather than the other way around,” Albus advised. “You needn’t worry about losing control, dear. You’re making great progress.”

“But when my emotions get out of hand…”

“Everyone has difficulty reigning in their emotions. Yours simply come with more responsibility. Don’t fear your strength, Harri, but embrace it. Understand it. Control it.”

“I will,” she replied. “I will. And I’ll start with this,” she muttered, staring at the feather intensely. Albus took Fawkes from her, cradling him in his robes as she turned the feather over, wondering, considering. A wand needed wood, and she was more than capable of growing her own plants, was she not? She had brought that bougainvillea to life through the tiles with sheer willpower, and now, she was determined to give this feather a wand befitting it.

Harri contemplated the shimmer of its glossy vane, gold glinting in the midst of varying hues of red. There was no specific tree in mind when she pushed her core out and down the veins of arm, through center of her palm. She only thought of the warmth, of his lilting song, of the connection she felt snap into place with the thrum of her magic.

Pale shreds of bark sprouted in tendrils that twisted in intricate braids around the feather, filling out and smoothing into the perfectly slim and slender shape of a wand. It was neither too stiff or too flimsy, but nice and supple, emitting a bright spray of sparks when she flicked it.

Albus clapped, startling a slumbering portrait, and gave her a large smile. “Truly magnificent,” he remarked, studying her wand with roving eyes. “Holly, is it? A wood that favors difficult and spiritual quests, indeed.”

Harri huffed. She experimentally twirled the wand between her fingers, the polished surface of the wood humming its own silent version of Fawkes’ trill. When she looked up, however, Albus was giving her spinning wand a glazed, almost haunted, look. Harri stopped quite suddenly, then, and instead held her wand by the handle rather tightly.

The energy practically _vibrated_ in her grip. Her hand was radiating an electric pulse that leaked into her wrist, brushing along her forearm in a haze of charged magic, leaving hairs standing on end in its wake. If she simply let it _flow_ it would fill her whole body with that wonderful, simply _right_ sensation. But Harri kept it at bay, concentrating it in her palm, in her wand, and not letting it go any further. She feared she would not be able to control it, or whatever happened thereafter, if she did.

The song though — her _wand’s_ song — picked up in frequency, and Harri felt it so deeply, so intrinsically that she could not help but succumb to the calm it exuded, and her worries evaporate. She could control it, just as she could control it now. It was her power. It was _hers._

The dam broke and the heat shot up her arm. It burned its way down from her palm, burning a stream of boiling blood through her pulsing, varicose veins. Then her core _snapped_ as the flow connected with it, and a blinding light flooded her vision.

It was like the day she had meditated under Voldemort’s orders. When she had looked for her soul’s power, and found a sea of fire and _love._ He had been right, in some torturous, ironic way; love was not her power. It was something just beneath it, or perhaps, _hidden_ by it — her soul was so open, so accepting, that it _welcomed_ others into it.

Other souls.

She could see it, now, or more accurately, _feel it —_ the phantom sensation of others’ thoughts, feelings, memories, very _existences,_ swirling around in her own soul. As soon as it came, the deluge of sensation was cut off, and the burning had died in her palm, in her chest. Harri was gasping for air as though she had been literally submerged beneath her flaming ocean, dipping beneath the surface to see more than her own memories, her own soul, and into others. Her wrist was throbbing, veins a dark, bruised blue that was almost black, and her wand no longer singing but softly humming.

Who had they been? Whose souls had she collected? How had she even done so, without knowing it?

Had they always been there?

“And what will you do now, my girl?” asked Albus, who was watching her with a keen eye. Harri did not know. She had no idea where to go from here.

With her newly opened, heightened connection, she could now make out the distant heat of her ring, brimming with suppressed feelings — _HarriHarriHarri_ — its desperate, clawing need, its urge to sink beneath her flesh and hug her bones, kiss her magic and slip between the tides of her roiling, burning soul. She knew where she had to go. She knew.

 _It’s him,_ she thought. _It’s always been him._

“The boy in the memories,” she whispered, staring straight into his wisened gaze, wrought with knowledge and mistakes. _“Tom,”_ she said, tasting the name on her tongue once more, finding the familiarity no longer confusing, but enlightening. “That’s his _true_ name… and Gellert — why would you tell me his true name? Don’t you still care for him?” she accused.

“I do,” admitted Albus, unashamed. “Names only have as much power as we give them. Gellert knows this, and though he keeps it close to his heart, it does not hold the same sway over him as Voldemort’s does. He has buried his name six feet deep, killing any and all who dare to even remember it. There are few who know to this day his true name — you, Gellert, and myself being among the few.”

“Why?” she murmured. “For power? To remove all weakness?”

“Voldemort — Tom — has always despised weakness of any kind. I have no doubt that that is why he has discarded his name as so. But perhaps, no — even as boy, he had despised his name.”

As much as she wanted to agree, to look and see simply a dark lord who coveted power and scorned weakness, Harri could not unsee the boy in the memories, judged by a man who could never quite understand. She did, and she does, and she _feels…_ To hate your own name, your _true name…_ would be to hate _yourself…_

She had too, at one point — but she could no longer. She was more than just Harri, and she was more than fate’s _Chosen One._ Everything was connected: her soul, her magic, life and death and all that existed between.

And perhaps, somewhere in Voldemort, she could feel the ghost of a boy, young and alone.

“Maybe, the next time I see you, this castle will not be so empty,” she said to Albus as she took a step back. Her wand thrummed against her palm, eager to respond to her will. The heat of her magic licked at her feet, spilling out from the marrow in her bones and wafting off her skin in waves.

The ring crooned.

Flames burst into life, drawn deep from within her to cocoon her, take her to where she was needed. Harri felt her form waver, disperse, and erupt into a pyre. As she spread her wings, gusts sending parchment and books flying haphazardly, Harri could just make out the chirp of Fawkes beneath the roar of her flames. She nodded at him, and subsequently Albus, before twisting and vanishing in a spray of harmless embers.

The ley lines thrummed with her will, guiding her over verdant acreage, dotted with color and blanketed by trees. She broke the cloud coverage, feeling lighter than she ever had in her whole life, as if all her troubles were worldly matters that she could simply leave behind for the neverending arc of the blue sky, the sun dipping beyond the horizon, the atmosphere becoming ever more prominently curved as she rose higher and higher.

It was like a cord being plucked, resonating in her core with a rhythmic, reverberating hum. She dove, shut her eyes, and focused on the connection between her ring and _him._

Harri vanished, fire consuming itself until not but an infinitesimal spark was left, and then she reappeared, flames unfurling in her wake, leaving streaks of brilliant light behind her slowly descending form. Voldemort immediately reached for her, grasping her wrists in his cold, unyielding clutch.

“You returned to me…” he whispered reverently, eyes flicking over her form wildly, scorchingly. His touch lingered on her ring, then trailed up her arm, fingers ghosting over her bruised veins. He cupped her cheek as if she were the last blossom of the season, stroking her skin with his thumb so lightly that his touch felt almost unreal, as he saw her to be. But she was real, and so was he, and while she _knew_ this man was more monster than she could ever claim to be, there still existed something gentle, something _caring_ within him; and no matter how small, how tainted, she wanted to nurture it.

She was nothing if not accepting — of the memory of a boy who was long gone, of the lost souls who found respite within her own, and of a dark lord who may not ever be redeemed, but perhaps could be saved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter came out twice as long as was expected and yet still feels rushed. Some of the timeline I had planned got switched around and some new things added, so I'll probably go back and tidy up previous chapters so everything gets foreshadowed nicely. The next installment will take some time to be published since I'm estimating it to be nearly twice as long as this one, and I want to get a decent buffer (more than 2/3 done or completed) before I post it. Thank you for your comments!


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